Heat
by Allimelon
Summary: This isn't a Hustle story, but we didn't want to lose it in the "Misc" section! It features one of Robert Glenister's other great TV creations, Terry Reid from "A Touch of Frost", and we hope any fan of Glenister Senior will enjoy reading it!
1. Chapter 1

**Authors' Note:**

**This story features DS Terry Reid, the character played by Robert Glenister in three stories from "A Touch of Frost". We didn't create the character of Reid – that was the scriptwriters, the director and RG himself, and we're very grateful to them all for doing so! The other characters are all original and so (we hope!) is the plot.**

**The story itself takes place between the first of Reid's Frost episodes, "Benefit of the Doubt", and the second, "Hidden Truth". It will certainly help in understanding the wider context of the story and the character of Reid if you've seen BOTD, but it's not essential to have done so (we hope – again!).**

**Enjoy! :-) **

**Aliis and Handy**

*******************************************

**Prologue**

_What have I become, my sweetest friend?_

_Everyone I know goes away in the end_

_And you can have it all, my empire of dirt,_

_I will let you down, I will see you hurt._

_If I could start again, a million miles away,_

_I would keep myself – I would find a way._

_**Trent Reznor, 1996**_

What it was all about, in the end, was taking the chance.

Five or six weeks after the accident, when the stupid turban thing had been replaced with a more discreet dressing, and they were letting him get out of bed and wear clothes instead of a nightie with a hole up the back, Louise travelled up from London and brought the kids with her. Paul had driven them up, but very discreetly took himself off to watch Leeds play Watford for the afternoon and left them to it.

He'd arranged to meet them in the Friends of Denton General coffee shop, on the basis that it was the least scary bit of the building, and was on his second paper cup of tea when a voice shouted: "Dad!" and Danny came hurtling down the corridor. Standing up carefully at the approach he braced his back against the table and absorbed the impact of the flying ten-year-old in a huge bear-hug.

"Steady, Danny – Dad's got a bad head, remember?" Louise had a cautious-looking Katie by the hand and a faintly harassed expression on her face.

"It's okay," he assured her, stooping down to kiss the back of Danny's hair as the boy burrowed into his belt-line. "Least vulnerable part of me anatomy."

"Bloody hell, Terry, don't make jokes!" She dropped her handbag on the table and looked up at him. "You look awful."

"Cheers!" he said dryly. "You should've seen me three weeks ago."

Danny, his arms still maintaining their clasp, craned his neck to stare upwards. "I don't like your hair like that," he announced.

"Not really me, is it? I don't like it either, son, I'm growing it back."

"Did you lose another bet, Dad?"

Snorting with laughter his father sat down and pulled the boy onto his knee. "No, they had to do this to operate on where I hit my head."

"Is it all right now? Does it hurt?"

"It hurts a bit sometimes, yeah. But it's getting better and it's going to be all right soon."

Danny's bright blue eyes gave him a searching look. Seemingly satisfied that he was being told the truth, he nodded. "That's good then. Can I get a drink?"

"You'll have to ask your Mum."

Louise rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. "Go on. Here…" she delved in her bag and handed him some pound coins. "Take those, and you and Katie go and choose a can and a bar of chocolate each, and then you can sit up at the table and have them, okay?"

Katie, who had been staring up at her father with her thumb in her mouth, suddenly left Louise's side and walked over to stand beside his knee. "Poor Daddy!" she announced, patting his leg gravely. "Shall I kiss it better?"

"Yes please, sweetheart." He bent down and offered her the top of his cropped head, on which she solemnly deposited a gentle peck.

"All better now!" she announced with satisfaction and he gently ruffled her blonde hair.

Danny held out his hand. "Come and get a drink, Katie. You can choose. Do you want a green one or a red one?"

As they wandered out of earshot, Louise smiled. "He's been great with her lately. Protective." She looked over at her ex. "How are you, really?"

He shrugged. "Up and down. Bored. Some days are fine."

"What about the other stuff?"

"Nothing like a nice family visit, is there?" An edge had come into his voice. "Hello dear, how's it going? Still got a drug habit?"

"_Don't _do that!" she snapped, almost flinching.

"Sorry, sorry," he held up a hand in apology. "It's just – it's a big step, that's all. I've got a lot riding on this."

"So have the kids," she reminded him.

"Why d'you think I'm doing it?"

"I know."

"I've booked into the centre," he said. "Going straight there when they let me out of here."

"Are you sure this is the right time?"

He rubbed his hand across the top of his head, rasping the unfamiliar stubble with his fingers. "If I don't do it now, Lou, I'll never get the nerve up. They had to drop the dose down while I was in intensive care – this is the best shot I'm going to get."

She nodded, then gave a wry smile. "Bit of a drastic way to get the ball rolling."

"Tell me about it!"

He glanced across to the counter where Danny was helping Katie to decide on a drink under the kindly eye of the volunteer worker. "Look, Lou – about the money…"

"Don't be daft, Terry. It was a joint mortgage; it's your share of the house, so it's your money."

"I was going to invest it for the kids, when I got round to it."

"The kids would rather have you healthy than your money in their bank account." Louise said firmly. "This is the best thing you could possibly do with that money."

He nodded and opened his mouth to say more, but at that point the children came clattering excitedly back and the conversation was curtailed. "Tell you what," he said, "How about we take these outside and have a picnic?"

"A _picnic_?" Louise looked at him askance. "There's a bloody gale blowing out there!"

"There's a little garden thing out the back," he said, pointing to the French windows behind her which opened onto a sheltered, sunny little quadrangle. "And…"

"…and you're gagging for a fag!" she finished teasingly.

"No smoking in here, is there? I'm getting by on what I can snatch out the window when the nurses ain't looking. Be a pal, Lou…"

"Come on, then!" Catching Katie by the back of the coat and picking up her bag, Louise headed for the door and slid it open, letting in cool air and sunlight.

Danny, who had been hopping across the floor walking only on the green squares, skidded to a halt in front of the table. "Need a pull, Dad?" Grabbing his father's obediently proffered hand he leaned back and hauled the tall man to his feet. "Are you coming back to London soon?"

"Not for a bit, mate. I've got to go and stay at another hospital for a while."

"Mum said you needed to get better from being in the war. Is that why you're going there?"

_Mum said that, did she? Clever Mum!_ "That's the plan. It might take a while though. Is that okay?"

Danny gave the question some thought. "Yeah. When you're properly better can we go to the football?"

"What – to Highbury? Paul takes you, doesn't he?"

"He does… but I don't think he likes it much." Danny beckoned to him to stoop down and whispered: "He's a West Ham fan."

His father pulled a face of mock horror. "_Oh no…!_"

Danny giggled. "He took me to the last home game but he didn't cheer when we won."

"We'll make it a deal, then, Dan – first home game when I'm back in London we're going to see the Arsenal, right?" He held out his hand and Danny shook it solemnly.

"Deal, Dad."

And that settled it. Whatever happened next, through the long, dark days and weeks to come, he'd made his son a promise. That would be his talisman – he would take this chance, walk the road, and at the end of it they'd go and see the Arsenal.

"Dadd-ee!" Katie was hanging through the sliding door, waving a chocolate bar in the air. "Mummy says stop doing boy talk and hurry up!"

Father and son grinned at each other and, hand in hand, walked slowly out into the sunshine


	2. Chapter 2

**Just a short chapter to get the story rolling.**

**Feel free to specualte about the plot - we staill aren't entirely sure what's happening, so if anyone else can guess, feel free! ;-)**

**

* * *

**

**Chapter One**

"Sarge! Over 'ere!"

Detective Sergeant Terry Reid flicked a cigarette end to the pavement, ground it in with his foot, and walked briskly over to where the excited uniformed officer waited.

"What've you got there?"

"This…" PC Matthew McGowan was pointing down at patch of grass a little shorter and less dense than the rest of the field. Reid stared down at it.

"What am I looking for, constable?" It was more of a sigh than a question.

"A footprint! Right there!" McGowan's finger sketched an outline above a muddy patch amongst the green. "And there's more of them, leading off into the trees."

A footprint. Reid shook his head in disbelief and searched his jacket pocket for another fag. "And what makes this footprint special?" He didn't wait for an answer, but pulled out his lighter and puffed the next one into life.

"It's a size 13, like what we were told to look out for, sir." The lad sounded aggrieved, so Reid examined it more closely.

"It does look pretty big," he conceded. He turned and shouted, "SOCO!" in the direction of a large police van. As the white-suited scene examiner came across the street, Reid focused on the semi-detached house that was presently the centre of police attention. He narrowed his eyes as a middle-aged black woman walked out through the front door, Met issue notebook and pencil in hand. She spoke to one of the officers who was doing a fingertip search of the front garden.

Reid made it over to her in four long strides. "Sheila."

The woman looked up from her notes and was obliged to step back in order to preserve her personal space. She cleared her throat and pushed her glasses up onto her hair. "Sergeant Reid. I wasn't aware you were back from Denton."

Reid gave a wicked, lopsided grin, made worse by the cigarette dangling from it. "I have returned," he said in a most un-McArthur-like manner.

WDC Boydeau wafted the smoke away from her face, wrinkling her nose. "Indeed." She coughed and led the way back into the house.

They stopped outside the living room, which appeared undisturbed, if you didn't count the gaping hole in the front window and the large brick in the middle of the coffee table, which had shattered into glassy hundreds and thousands.

Boydeau indicated the mess with her pencil. "We know from the neighbours that this happened just before 2.20 p.m."

"A drive-by?"

"Apparently not. No vehicles seem to have been involved, at least not in this aspect of the incident. The 'messenger' was on foot. Uniform are checking the front, side and back of the house for the escape route." She continued on to the kitchen. "The occupant – singular – made his way through here and called 999 at pretty much the same time as the woman across the street did. We had the area car here in under 90 seconds."

"Was he badly hurt?"

Boydeau looked at the floor, then up at Reid. "We don't know. We can't find him." In response to Reid's astonished face, she added, "The first officers on the scene searched the house from top to bottom, then the garden. There was no sign of anyone, suspect or otherwise." In anticipation of his next question she glanced at her notebook and continued, "The sole occupant is a Paul Dunsmore, aged 43, divorced, employed at the local cash and carry as a warehouseman."

Reid looked around the smart, suburban residence and raised his eyebrows.

"I was thinking the same thing, sarge: how does a man on that kind of income afford this?"

"Maybe he inherited it." Reid ran his hand through his hair, pushing the long fringe out of his eyes. "Or perhaps he's renting on the cheap. Ask the neighbours, they seem to have been forthcoming enough so far."

"Already did, sarge. Dunsmore moved in about eight months ago; they remembered that because it was just before Christmas. The house had been empty for about two months before that, although no-one seemed very sure why."

"So there's no chance it was a case of mistaken identity?"

"It's a possibility, and I've got Craig checking on it down at the town hall, going through the council tax records."

"Good. Well, since it looks like you've got everything under control here, I'm off back to the station. The paperwork that's been stacking up in my absence could sink a ship."

"Oh, sarge, before you go, the only solid lead we have so far came from the man next door."

"More nosy neighbours, God bless 'em."

"He recognised the guy who threw the brick, says he knows him from one of the local pubs, a…" - she consulted her notes – "Colin Whyte. That's all he knew about him, but the PNC turned up his record – receiving stolen goods, selling counterfeit handbags, that sort of thing."

"Bit of a local Del Boy, eh?"

"Got a couple of officers in civvies camped on his doorstep, so we'll know when he turns up. Other than that, I'd say it was safe to tackle that paperwork, sarge." She flipped her notebook shut and looked at Reid resignedly. "This lot's not going anywhere fast."

******

It wasn't the years, Reid thought to himself as he flopped into the front seat of his Mondeo and briefly leaned back against the headrest with his eyes closed. It was the mileage. What had begun as a three month transfer to Denton to cover for a long-term leave and, not incidentally, to get him as far away from Brocklehurst as he could possibly be, had turned into his extended stay in hospital and a long rehabilitation period which had varied from the nightmarish – withdrawal symptoms and side-effects - to the merely tedious – twelve weeks stuck behind a desk up in Denton. He had been relieved to see Sheila Boydeau and appreciated her brisk, "business as usual" approach; there'd been enough whispering behind hands and sideways glances at the station to do him for a lifetime and he'd hardly been back a day.

On the plus side, he'd been lucky. Rather than a headstone reading "Here lies Terry Reid – flushed his career down the toilet then smashed his head on a sink and died in one", he'd come out of it with almost no repercussions. Unless you counted the disturbed sleep, which he'd had before the accident anyway. He'd helped make an important collar, which had redressed the damage to his reputation a little. And he was also now the proud possessor of his very own counsellor (with whom, he remembered irritably, he had to arrange a new appointment) and an unlikely but welcome champion in the form of peppery DI Frost.

On the minus side … Reid started up the car with a sigh. Apart from anything else, that pile of paper wasn't going to get any smaller by itself, and now he'd got to go back and give a report to Brocklehurst about a bloke who'd rung to report his window being put through and then disappeared into thin air, leaving a load of questions with no answers. Lovely. Welcome back DS Reid. He shoved the Mondeo into gear and nosed out onto the road, taking a left turn onto the bypass rather than driving through town. He was off the drink for the time being, too, and had got into the habit of avoiding pubs.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Two**

Nothing got up Reid's nose more than ambition, and in particular, ambition in the useless and talent-free. Especially when it manifested itself in a Chief Inspector who'd been wearing short trousers when Reid was a probationer.

Visually, Reid supposed, DCI Brocklehurst gave a reasonable first impression: a tall, thin, relatively good-looking fellow with fair hair and gold-rimmed spectacles, who let himself down the minute he opened his mouth. His public school diction was only slightly less intimidating than his piercing green eyes, but much more a target of ridicule; after all, he couldn't help his eye colour, but the desk sergeant would willingly have had a whip-round to send the guv'nor to a decent elocution teacher. Anything to get shot of that accent.

Reid viciously crumpled up the official Metropolitan Police post-it note and fired it, inaccurately, at the waste paper basket across the room. The other thing that got up his nose was being disorganised, and after a straight two hours of filing, scribbling, binning and sorting, his work-space was still a tip. Bad enough that he had months of backlog to catch up on, but the powers-that-be had decided to shuffle the office space around during his absence and whoever had been in charge of shifting his stuff had dumped it in an unceremonious jumble and left it.

He looked around the room gloomily and wondered for the umpteenth time who on earth had allocated him this rabbit hutch. It had obviously been designed for single occupancy, but now held two desks, a filing cabinet, and rather a lot of archive boxes. All of the clutter, apart from the immediate area round his own desk, was now gathering dust with alarming density.

Curiosity getting the better of him, he got slowly to his feet and walked around behind the second desk, which stood at right angles to his own. A desk diary, in pristine condition, merited further investigation. Reid opened it and saw the name "DS Hannigan" written neatly on the fly-leaf. Flicking through a few more pages, he realised that whoever Hannigan was, he hadn't done much work that year. The book was devoid of entries apart from the odd "Dentist 11.40 a.m.", "Car service – ring Tony", and, ominously, the final one, "Hospital: 9.15 a.m.".

Reid tried the desk drawers, but all were locked, and there was nothing else to indicate who had been working there, or when they might return. At best, DS Hannigan was on long-term sick leave – Reid sympathised – or at worst…no, he didn't want to think about that.

After replacing the diary, he moved over to the nearby filing cabinet, and tried the handle of the top drawer. It, too, was locked. Reid swore. Had they put him in the spare room, then? He tried to remember if he had ever been in it before going to Denton, but had to admit to himself that much of that time period was a blank.

He checked his watch and realised he was almost late for his appointment. Snatching up the case file, Reid threw open the door, startling a passing WPC, and marched down the adjacent corridor to the door bearing the brass plate, "Chief Inspector B. Brocklehurst". He smiled inwardly at the warm recollection of the inspector's not-so-affectionate nickname "B.B.", bestowed on him by troops who knew that, like his namesake, he was liable to go off half-cocked at any time.

Reid tapped twice on the door, and opened it at the peremptory invitation to "Come!"

"Close it behind you, Reid," said Brocklehurst unnecessarily. "How are things going for you today?"

_He's been on another bloody management course,_ thought Reid, somewhat taken aback by the attempt at sympathetic treatment. _Probably called something like "There's No 'I' in Team: How to Get Them Behind You"_. Out loud, he said, "Um…fine, thank you, sir. I got a message that you wanted to see me. I've got the report on…"

"In good time, in good time. Sit down, please." Reid sat gingerly on the straight-backed chair, facing the desk, wondering what the hell was coming next.

"You'll have met up with DC Boydeau? I'd like you to continue to partner her for the time being, and I believe the two of you worked well as a team before."

"Yes, sir, we've been working together on the shout this afternoon. Nothing major, so I've let her get on with things at the scene while I get caught up with some paperwork back here."

The chief nodded understandingly. "That's good, just keep the lines of communication open, will you? Make sure you're up to speed with the case." He held out his hand for the report. "May I?"

Reid handed him the folder and waited apprehensively, but Brocklehurst merely gave the top sheet a cursory glance, lifted it to see the sketch of the crime scene below, and closed the file again.

"As you say, not a major incident there. Vandals, in all likelihood?"

"Well, as you can see, the victim has a record, and we're … pursuing that line of enquiry," finished Reid ambiguously.

"Excellent! A good start, sergeant." Brocklehurst stood up, and Reid followed suit, sensing that there was more to come and fervently wishing himself elsewhere. The chief inspector handed back the case notes and said in a confidential but patronising tone, "I don't mind telling you I was a little anxious about your return here. You've been through a lot, and although your counsellor is certain you're ready to come back, I must say I had my reservations." He smiled broadly, the headmaster to the reformed truant.

Reid let his face drop into an impenetrable mask, grateful that B.B. couldn't read his thoughts, as the braying voice went on: "But you've obviously made tremendous progress. It's good to see such conscientiousness in one's officers." He held out his hand and Reid, momentarily perplexed by such an unfamiliar gesture from Brocklehurst, and struggling with a desire to belt the silly git, leg it out of the door, or both, managed to regain his composure sufficiently to extend his own. It was like shaking hands with a damp haddock.

He left the office wanting a drink more than he had for days, but contented himself, for the moment, with escaping to the canteen for a couple of cigarettes and a dodgy-looking mug of tea, which he spat out at the first sip. Some things just didn't change at all.

**********

It was late in the afternoon. Reid had meant to rattle off another hour's paperwork, then go down and see if DI Pyle was open for visitors, but the DI's appointments diary had conspired against him and instead he'd consigned what felt like several tons of paper to the depths of archive hell. He was heartily relieved when a tap at his door was followed by the appearance of Sheila Boydeau's head around the edge of it. "Are you busy, sarge? I could go away and come back later."

"No! No – come in, for God's sake! Save me brain from leaking out through me eyeballs!" Slapping his collection of folders closed Reid stacked them into a pile and pushed his chair back to stretch his legs under the table. "Got anything for me?"

"A headache." Boydeau put down a sheaf of papers on the edge of Reid's desk, picked up a stack of box-files from the only other chair in the room and gave him a questioning look.

"Sorry, Sheila!" Unfolding from his sprawl, Reid levered himself to his feet, leaned over to relieve her of the burden and began to check the spines of the files and slot them away in their places. Over his shoulder he said: "Go on."

"Not much to 'go on' with, to be honest, but I have a _feeling_."

Reid shoved the last file home and turned round. His DC was squinting down at her notes, glasses perched on her nose. "Something more than meets the eye, you reckon?"

"It's the phone call. That's what doesn't fit." Pulling the specs off she looked up at him, frowning. "Someone throws a brick through a man's front window. One of two things would usually follow – he calls the police and waits for them to arrive…"

"… or he goes out and tries to deal with it himself and never calls." Reid finished thoughtfully, leaning back against the radiator.

"Exactly. So why would he call and _then_ leave?"

"Because something else happened, between the call and the car arriving, which meant he wasn't there when the car arrived."

Boydeau's frown only deepened. "In less than 90 seconds?"

"You said uniform searched the house and garden, top to bottom, soon as they got there, right?" Boydeau nodded and Reid continued, thinking aloud. "So he wasn't hiding anywhere, or being held anywhere. Let's go back over this." Sitting down at the desk he flipped open the file and picked up the papers Sheila had brought in. Boydeau replaced her glasses in position and began to look over her notebook. As he picked up a pen and drew out a clean sheet of paper, an image drifted into Reid's head of DI Jack Frost digging in his pocket for an old envelope and reading his scribbled thoughts off the back of it. He grinned to himself at the memory. "Right. Brick through the window, two calls, yes?

Boydeau nodded again. "One from Dunsmore, one from the woman across the street."

Reid began to make notes of his own in neat block capitals. "What did she actually see?"

"She heard the crash, went to her window, saw Colin Whyte running off."

"And the next-door neighbour id-ed Whyte, yeah?" Reid glanced up briefly from his scribbling for her confirmation and jabbed his pen at the paper in an emphatic full-stop. "So Whyte ran down the street this way…" he leaned over to point at the sketch of the crime-scene that lay on top of the open file. "Those prints McGowan found, Sheila – where did they lead?"

Flipping the pages of her book, she located what she wanted. "He found another three prints, sarge – all a bit blurred, no patterning, but they look to be all the same size, and they all lead the same way." With the end of her pen she traced an imaginary line on the map. "Towards the woods at the back of the estate."

Reid turned the map round and studied the layout of the house. "So if those are Dunsmore's prints," he said, "then he's come out of his kitchen through the back door and taken off up the field to the woods. Must have been moving it a bit or uniform would've seen him. What's gonna make him run out of his house, across a field and into the woods _after_ he's called the police?"

"Maybe he saw someone, or something?" Boydeau suggested.

"What – out the back of the house?" It was Reid's turn to frown. "What time do you go off-shift?"

Boydeau looked at her watch. "In about an hour."

"Right." Reid stood up and grabbed his coat off the back of his chair. "Let's have a quick run out there and walk up that hill behind the house. Where's young McGowan, d'you know?"

*************************************

"Here we go, sir." McGowan, his face slightly flushed with excitement, stopped by the tape marking the position of the first footprint and pointed.

"Get up the top, there, son, and stand by the last one". As McGowan set off up the hill, Reid held out his arm as a marker and squinted along it. With the constable in position it was clear that the prints did indeed make an almost direct route from where Reid was standing into the trees which began halfway up the slope behind the house. Pivoting on his heel, Reid looked back across at the house to where Sheila Boydeau was standing by the back garden gate. "Straight line?" he shouted, and received a thumbs-up in reply.

Beckoning to McGowan, Reid paused to light a Rothmans and loped back down the last few yards to join Boydeau, making sure he stopped upwind of her. "So – he looks up, he sees something out of the kitchen window, then he legs it out of the back door, through here," he slapped the top of the gate with his hand, "and takes off up the hill and into the trees up there."

McGowan reached them, puffing gently. "I had a quick gander right at the top there, sarge," he said, "and I think there's a place in the fence he might have got through. If we think that's where he went."

"It's as likely a place as any." Reid looked around the open space. Twilight was beginning to draw in; they were standing in the shadow of the hill and the trees loomed forbiddingly above them. "What I want to know is: if he _did _goin there, why hasn't he come back out again?"

"Maybe he has," Boydeau said, "and we just don't know it yet. I've another question for you, gents." She gestured in a sweeping arc, indicating the breadth of the space. "He's run diagonally from here to the trees up there. Did he see something up there that he wanted to get _to_, or did he see something over that side that he wanted to get away _from_?"

In the deepening gloom her words sounded laden with foreboding and McGowan hunched his shoulders a little and shivered. Reid sniffed thoughtfully. "You're a cheery soul, aintcha, Sheila?" He stared across the tussocky grass and drew on his cigarette. "It's getting too dark to do anything tonight, but I think we've got enough to warrant following this up. I'll get you two back to base and then I'll go and see Pyle and tell him what we're up to. If he gives it the thumbs up we'll get out here first thing in the morning and have a proper dig round."

**************************************

Arriving back at the nick, Reid went across to the desk sergeant's station to check the whereabouts of the elusive DI Pyle. He had a suspicion that Pyle's full diary for that day might not entirely be a coincidence; Reid's previous DI had retired during the Denton sabbatical, and Reid had the notion that his new boss was not overwhelmed by his inheritance.

Coleman, the desk sergeant, looked up as Reid leaned his elbows on the counter.

"Is he still in, Gryff?"

"You still trying to catch up with Pyle? For God's sake!"

Coleman, one of the few people Reid was genuinely pleased to have reacquainted himself with on his return to work, picked up his internal phone and dialled. After listening for a moment he put the handset back down on the rest. "He's on the phone, Tel, so he must still be in the office. You want to hang about for a bit? I'll shove the kettle on."

"Can do." Reid ducked through to the back office, and collapsed into one of the swivel chairs. He took out his cigarettes, then remembered there was no smoking in public areas and put them away again.

Coleman's voice drifted out through the half-open door of the little cubby-hole where he kept his kettle, a miniature fridge and a supply of tea and coffee. "You know Pyle at all, then?"

"Only by sight. Hadn't been here long when I left. Bit public-school, isn't he?"

"Rugger bugger." Coleman's voice was laced with contempt. An ex-Welsh Guardsman and useful player himself, he had little time for those who used a game of rugby as an excuse for a pub-crawl.

"That'll be nice." Reid let his head drop briefly into his hands, bracing himself for his second tricky encounter of the day.

"Here you go." Coleman set a steaming mug down in front of him and perched on the edge of the desk. "Been a decent first day back, then?"

"Could've been worse." Reid sipped cautiously at the hot liquid. "I got a handshake off the Chief."

"Ah!" Laying a finger confidentially along his nose, Coleman leaned forward. "Well, the Chief got a letter, I believe." Seeing Reid's uncomprehending expression, he continued: "From Denton. Singing your praises, apparently, for being a stubborn bugger, and saying how great it was that the Chief had agreed to you coming back – how well it reflected on him as a manager that he was willing to invest in his staff."

Reid snorted into his mug. "The old sod! He kept that quiet!"

"Who – Frost? I spoke to him on the phone a time or two while you were recuperating; he rates you, Terry."

"Well…" Reid pulled a non-committal face at the table and shrugged slightly.

"Seriously. I saw the letter. You must have done something right!" Coleman swivelled his chair round and tried the phone again. "Oops, here we are… evening, sir. I've got DS Reid here at the front desk; he'd like a chat if you've got five minutes. Right you are, then. Thank you, sir." He turned back to Reid. "There you go…"

"Cheers." Reid emptied his mug and ducked back under the flap of the counter.

As he turned to go, Coleman called after him: "Just watch Pyle a bit, Terry. Bite your lip and count to ten. Or a hundred."

"Noted." Shoving his hands in his pockets, Reid slouched through the fire-doors and halted outside Pyle's door, which was ajar. Mentally gritting his teeth, he gave a brisk knock and pulled his shoulders back, ready to face the foe.

Pyle opened the door and for a moment they assessed each other. Neither was impressed. Wordlessly the DI stepped back and gestured for Reid to enter. Reid walked through the door in silence, stiff-backed, pleased that he was tall enough to look Pyle in the eye as he passed.

After a long, soundless few seconds, Pyle said: "So you're Reid."

"Sir." Reid was giving him nothing.

"Hm." Pyle walked behind the desk. "I've read your file."

Reid stared at the wall behind the DI's head and waited.

"Was there something you wanted, Reid?"

"We're following a lead on the case from this afternoon, sir. It looks as though the victim left the house, and we'd like to chase it up."

"One toerag chucking bricks at another and you want to follow it up?" Pyle gave the tiniest of sneers. "Who's "we"?"

"Myself and DC Boydeau, sir."

"Very well. Give it a couple of days, see what turns up. If you've got nothing by Wednesday, drop it. And Reid?"

"Sir?"

"Don't cock it up. The Chief might have you down as his charity case, and Kershaw might have turned a blind eye to you buggering about, but if you run off the rails again I'm not getting caught in your wreckage. Clear?"

"Sir."

Pyle glared in exasperation. "That will be all."

"Sir." Reid about-faced and left the office. He refrained from slamming the door, but he did give the fire-door a hefty kick open to relieve his feelings, and fetched up back at Coleman's desk simmering with fury.

Coleman took one look at his face and lifted the flap on the desk. "Come through," he said quietly.

Crashing down on the chair in the back office Reid dug out his cigarettes, his stare burning holes through the formica of the table top.

Coleman pushed an empty mug in front of him. "Puff away, so long as you dot it out into there," he said. "I can always blame it on the local youth."

Reid lit up with shaking hands and gasped the smoke down. After a long moment he looked up. "Ta."

Coleman shrugged. "Not a problem. I'm off in half an hour – want to go and grab…" - he almost said "_a beer_" and stopped the words just in time - "…some chips?"

"Yeah. Yeah, thanks."

"Righto. I'll leave you to it for a bit, then. Oh – when you've finished, just leave the ash in the mug. Then I'll make Pyle a brew in that one tomorrow morning."

As the door closed behind the departing sergeant, Reid reflected that it really did take all sorts. Fortunately.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Thanks for keeping up with us so far!**_

_**Please drop us a review on this site if you visit - it would be good to know who's reading out there and what you think.**_

_**And if anyone is beginning to form a theory, let's hear it! ;-)**_

* * *

**Chapter Three**

Tuesday morning saw Reid in a cautiously optimistic mood. By the time he'd finished putting the world to rights with Coleman and driven home he'd been so knackered that he'd slept right through the night. Granted, it had been in the armchair rather than on the bed and he'd woken up with a massive crick in his neck, but it was still better than staring at the ceiling till three in the morning. A shower, a change of clothes and a black coffee later he was clattering down the steps of his rented flat with an air that might almost have been called jaunty.

As he pulled up in the staff car-park at Northcote his mobile rang and a quick look at the display showed that he wasn't going to be able to put off making that counselling appointment this time. With a little sigh he pressed the "answer" button.

"'Ello, Camille."

"Terry." As usual, Camille sounded gently amused. "I thought I'd better jog your memory."

"Sorry. What with starting back at work this week… totally slipped my mind"

This was the polite game they played. Reid had to drag himself kicking and screaming to the counselling sessions; Camille knew this perfectly well, but was determined not to let him off the hook. At the end of each session he would tell her he'd ring and arrange the next appointment; each time when he failed to call she would ring him and the appointment would duly be arranged.

"That's fine, Terry – I know there's a lot going on for you at the moment. Shall we say early next week, then? I can do Tuesday at seven in the evening if that fits in with you."

Swallowing the vague flutter of anxiety that had begun to tighten inside him, Reid cleared his throat and said: "Seven next Tuesday. Yep."

"Do you need a call on Monday to remind you?"

"No, that should be okay…" As in _that will be lurking around in the back of my head all bloody week._

"Okay then. How did it go yesterday?"

"You know. It went."

"I know." There was that smile in her voice again. "See you next week, then."

Reid rang off resignedly and lit a comfort fag, grabbing a couple of moments to restore his equilibrium before he climbed out of his car. As he was disentangling himself from the seatbelt and shutting the door, Sheila Boydeau rounded the corner of the building, spotted him and waved. Raising an arm in reply Reid locked the Mondeo and strode across to join her.

"You're looking cheerful," she greeted him.

"I'm a man with a plan. Hold up…" Reid took two long drags on the cigarette and ground it out under his foot.

Boydeau's nose wrinkled. "You know that's a disgusting habit," she said.

He gave her an unrepentant smirk. "Come on." He set off toward the building at a brisk pace, Boydeau hurrying to keep up.

"What's this plan, then?" she asked as they bustled in through the double doors and signed in at the desk. "Did Pyle give us the nod to follow up on Dunsmore?"

"Yeah… for a couple of days."

The tone of his voice made her look up at him sideways. "Oh dear. Not a meeting of minds, I take it?" Receiving no answer save a slight curl of his lip she went on: "I didn't think it would be. Actually I'm not sure Haemorrhoids has much mind for anyone to meet with."

The nickname drew grin from Reid, which turned into a slightly startled expression as she nudged him to the right and pushed open the doors of the canteen. "It's early," she explained, "and I'll listen to your plan better if I've had a coffee and some toast."

Reid ambled across to a table by the window and sat in the sunshine, automatically lighting a fresh cigarette and receiving a reproving look from Boydeau as she came over with a tray. He nipped out the last half and put it back in the packet as she unloaded cups and plates onto the table, pushing a black coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs and toast across to him. He blinked down at the food and then up at his DC, who was putting the empty tray down at the side of the table. "What's this?"

Boydeau swiftly buttered a piece of wholemeal toast. "Thought you were a detective. It's breakfast."

"Did I say I wanted breakfast?"

"Have you had any?"

"No."

"Well then." Boydeau pointed her knife at his plate. "Don't let it get cold. You can pay tomorrow morning."

Defeated, Reid picked up his fork and set to work. "Right," he said after a few moments. "The plan." He took a swallow of coffee. "If your instincts are right, Dunsmore's still missing. If he is, we need to know more about him, which means going through his stuff at the house and getting over to the warehouse and digging out some background. Nothing like work gossip for uncovering deep dark secrets. Also…" he broke off to scoop up another forkful "…we should get up to where McGowan thought he'd found a way into the wood and see if we can spot anything useful, before the world and his wife go parading through there walking their dogs."

"If we went straight over to the house, I could phone the warehouse on the way," suggested Boydeau. "Check if he turned up for work, and make us an appointment to see his boss at the same time."

Reid nodded, finishing his eggs. "Give us chance to get up to the woods early doors. I'll leave Pyle a message at the desk."

Boydeau re-stacked the tray neatly. "I'll just have to grab my notebook from the office. I wrote down the number for the warehouse yesterday."

"Meet you at the car, then," he suggested.

As he pushed open the swing doors, Reid could hear Pyle's raised voice: "…what the hell are you on about, 'the milk's on the turn'? There's bloody _black_ bits floating about in this!"

Carefully avoiding Coleman's eye, Reid paused by the desk. "Boydeau and I are just on the way back to Fairfax Road, sir, see if there's any sign of the victim returning home."

"What?" Pyle, who was wiping his mouth on a handkerchief, swung round. "Oh, Reid. Yes, fine. Keep me informed."

Reid headed for the door, retrieving his half-smoked cigarette from the packet on the way. Behind him came another explosion: "Of course I want a bloody clean cup!" He paused to light up, concealing his amusement in his cupped hands, then with cigarette in mouth Reid strolled back to the car and propped himself against the bonnet to wait for Boydeau.

******

"You take upstairs, I'll do down here," instructed Reid. Boydeau nodded as he disappeared through the door that lay between the kitchen and the now boarded-up front living room. He found himself in a pleasant, airy dining room with a large bay window that gave a good view of the local golf course. Minimally but tastefully decorated, he thought, then shook his head and decided he'd been watching too much daytime television.

He opened the sideboard drawers, starting with the bottom one – he could never explain why he always did this, perhaps he should mention it to Camille in case he was OCD, he thought wryly – to reveal tablecloths, napkins, and place mats. He had almost stopped paying attention when he finally reached the top drawer and found, surprise surprise, a little black book. He grinned like the proverbial cat with a very large dish of cream.

"Sheila!" he called, and immediately heard her footfalls overhead and then on the stairs. He handed the book to her without a word and she quickly scanned its contents. Names, phone numbers, lists…

"You were right, sarge," she said with a touch of pride in their joint success. "D'you think it _is_ drugs, then?"

"Looks like it. Although outside odds might be on blackmail."

The word triggered something with Sheila. "Or maybe black market? His record would point to that."

They stared at each other for a few seconds, one of those "eureka" moments that reminded Reid why he did the job, then he slammed his hand down on the sideboard. "That's it! His job at the cash and carry gives him the perfect opportunity to skim off the odd crate of booze or fags here and there." He recalled something else they'd discussed the previous day and asked, "Didn't you say he'd been ID'd by a guy in a pub? Perhaps Whyte knew Dunsmore because he'd been hawking his wares round all the locals."

Boydeau was starting to catch the excitement. "I think we should have a word with Whyte next, then," she suggested.

"Definitely. Do you have his..."

Reid's words hung in the air as an earsplitting crash rocked the ground floor of the house. Instinctively the two of them dropped to the floor, crouching and covering their heads.

Sheila whipped out her radio and said quietly but urgently, "DC Boydeau to control. Urgent assistance, 32 Fairfax Road. Burglary in progress. Silent approach please."

"Is it just me," asked Reid, _sotto voce_, "or is this getting a bit old? Two windows in as many days?"

"Well, it can't be the front room..." she whispered back.

"Kitchen, I think, unless they've got a very large catapult out there." Reid crawled to the dining room door and peered round the corner cautiously. "Yep. Breeze block this time."

They waited for the assailant to enter the house. Sheila got her night stick out, and Reid said regretfully, "Left mine in the sodding car."

There was a crunch of glass in the kitchen, as somebody carefully made their way across the remains of the back door. Reid gestured to Boydeau to hand him her baton, which she did, and as the suspect drew level with the dining room, he was met with a swift blow to the shins. Screaming in agony, he went down like a sack of spuds, and both Reid and Boydeau piled on top of him, pinning him to the floor, as two uniformed officers barged in at the front .

"In here!" bellowed Reid, and one of the constables handcuffed the crippled intruder, who was dragged to his feet as they all stood up.

"Ah'm gonny sue youse! Maimed for life, so am ur!"

Amused, Boydeau said, "Well, limp off out to the patrol car while I get my First Aid kit, because your health is absolutely one of our priorities."

"Did I detect a bit of an accent there?" enquired her superior officer, brushing down his trousers. They could still hear shouts of "Police brutality!" coming from the street.

"You _are_ good," replied Boydeau sardonically. "First scrambled eggs, now this..."

"Don't get lippy," shot back Reid as he prepared to light up, and to his horror Boydeau reached over and snatched the cigarette from his mouth.

"Oi!" he cried indignantly. "Who do you think...?"

"It's not good for your health, sarge. I think you should at least try and cut down. That's your fourth this morning – that I know of."

"You're _counting_?" Reid was incredulous. "You're worse than my last guv'nor – at least he only made me put them out."

"You should listen to him."

"Accent?" said Reid crossly, putting the packet of fags away anyhow.

"West of Scotland, definitely. Most likely Glasgow."

"Sounds about right. Well, let's get back to the nick and see what he has to say for himself, once the police surgeon's put him back together again."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

"What's the verdict, doc?" asked Reid, as the MO peeled off his disposable gloves.

"Nothing broken, severe bruising to both lower legs, some interesting older marks on his arms which I would attribute to drug use, and the most chronic case of halitosis I have encountered in my twenty-two years in the medical profession." Reid grinned at this description as the doctor continued, "He's insisting that photographs be taken of his injuries to enable him to make a case for excessive force having been used."

"Pffft!" puffed Reid sceptically.

"It's his right. I've called the photographer and asked him to come over as quickly as he can, so that you can get on with interviewing the little... er, the suspect."

"Thanks, Ignatius, I'll get the custody sergeant to come and take him to back to the cell to wait." Stepping backwards, Reid called round the corner for Sergeant Powling to retrieve his prisoner.

"Right, I'll be off then," said the medic briskly, seizing his case and throwing his coat over his arm. "Let me know how it goes. I'd be happy to appear as a witness should his case ever get as far as the courts – to testify that his injuries were consistent with resisting arrest, naturally." Ignatius Tierney donned his homburg and strode out of the custody suite, and Sergeant Powling escorted the stroppy Scotsman into his cell.

"Ah want ma brief!" he shouted, as the sergeant locked the door.

"I've already told you, sir," replied Powling wearily, "we've called the number you gave us and left a message on the answering machine. So far we've had no reply."

"Ah want some tea!"

Reid intervened and Powling stepped aside. "Are you going to tell us who you are?" he barked.

There was a sullen silence in the cell.

"Thought not. Well, seeing you claim to be nobody, we'll give nobody some tea. How's that suit you?" Reid slammed the peephole door shut and stalked away to the tune of a thousand Scottish curses.

**********

"Sarge, we've got an ID for the suspect." Sheila entered Reid's office with a printout from the police database.

Reid, who'd been updating his notes ready to pass them on to Pyle, held up his hand and closed his eyes, feigning clairvoyance. "Hold on, don't tell me, I'm getting something here...housebreaking, petty theft, demanding money with menaces, possession with intent to supply...shall I go on?"

"Surprisingly accurate, sarge, you should give Mystic Meg a call." She handed him the sheet.

"Gordon McVey, originally from... Paisley, you were close," he nodded at Boydeau with a hint of admiration in his voice. "_Forty-nine_ convictions for... ye gods, he's done more time than a bloody grandfather clock." He skimmed down the page to find the information he wanted most of all. "Here we go. Known associates..."

"I've got McGowan checking those out just now. Ten to one most of them are banged up at the moment, so it shouldn't be too hard to identify the likeliest candidates."

"Well," Reid said as he rose to his feet, absentmindedly patting his pockets, "now that we know who our guest is, let's see if we can get to know him a little better." He stopped searching himself and opened his desk drawer. Boydeau waited expectantly.

"Bugger it, where've they gone?" He looked up suspiciously at his partner's rather-too-innocent expression. His eyes narrowed. "Sheila..." he said, menacingly.

"Oh, do you mean your cigarettes?"

Reid advanced round the desk and she backed casually out of the room. "So help me, you'll buy me another packet...," he threatened.

"They're safe for the moment, that's all I'm prepared to say." Boydeau stood defiantly in a talk-to-the-hands-cos-the-face-ain't-listening fashion. "Shall we go down and see what Mr. McVey has to say for himself?"

Swearing viciously under his breath, the nicotine-deprived Reid could only follow her, but on the way downstairs he stopped at the drinks machine for a bottle of water. This was the only weapon he ever took into an interrogation.

Sheila was approaching the interview room from the direction of the front desk, accompanied by a stocky, seedy-looking man, whom Reid correctly assumed to be McVey's brief.

"This is Mr. Stafford, who is representing Mr. McVey." Reid gave a cursory nod in the man's direction. "And this is Detective Sergeant Reid, who will be sitting in on the interview." The solicitor returned the gesture minus interest, and Boydeau opened the room. All three of them took an involuntary step back as an overpowering smell broke free from the confines of the interview space, and Reid mentally endorsed Dr. Tierney's diagnosis.

The constable who had been keeping an eye on McVey stood pale and stoic by the door, but whispered something to Boydeau, who nodded, and the officer made himself scarce. He returned in about thirty seconds bearing an aerosol whose label claimed it eliminated all unpleasant household odours. Reid doubted it would have much of an impact on this particular aroma, but said nothing, and allowed the officer free rein to try and clear the air.

Reid sat down at the table beside Sheila, who turned on the recorder and gave the usual preamble. Then she began: "Mr. McVey, this morning at exactly 10.08 you were discovered breaking into a house in Fairfax Road. Can you tell me what you were doing there?"

"Nae comment."

"Were you looking for drugs?"

_Wow_, thought Reid, _that one came out of left field_. He sat quietly, anticipating an entertaining interview.

The emaciated Scotsman looked momentarily taken aback, and shot a panicky glance at Stafford, but replied, "Nae comment."

"I'll take it from your silence that you were, then. Do you know the minimum sentence for supplying drugs?"

Stafford leaned forward and motioned for Boydeau to stop. "I don't recall seeing anything on the charge sheet about drugs. Where were they in relation to my client?"

"I'm afraid I can't disclose that as it might prejudice our investigation. What I _can_ tell you is that there is solid evidence pointing to a sizeable drugs operation being run from that particular house, and your client has implicated himself by illegally gaining entry to the premises."

The solicitor stared uncertainly at Boydeau, blinked, looked at Reid, and made a decision. He whispered something in McVey's ear.

"Aw, come on!!"

More whispering.

Sheila shot an imperceptible glance at Reid, whose passive expression altered not a jot.

"My client wishes to make a statement..."

"Oh?"

"...but he would like to make it clear that..."

"Ah wis _not_ in that hoose fur drugs, d'ye get me?" interrupted McVey.

"So, you were there to burgle it?" Boydeau replied.

"Naw, ah...ah wisnae burglin' it either." A pause ensued, followed by another hurried consultation.

"Aye, ah wis...visitin' a friend."

Reid spluttered and coughed, and took a long drink of water.

"And what is your friend's name?" asked Sheila.

"Eh...ah dinny want tae get him intae trouble..."

Reid sat forward, rested his arms on the table that separated them, and said very carefully, "Mr. McVey, trouble is what _you_ are in right now. I think if you want to get yourself _out_ of that trouble, you should tell us who the friend was that you were in Fairfax Road to visit."

Stafford nodded at McVey as if to say, "He's right, you know."

Sulkily, the Scotsman spat out, "Dunsmore. Paul Dunsmore."

Boydeau continued, "And how did you make Mr. Dunsmore's acquaintance? That is," she hurriedly rephrased, on seeing McVey's blank face, "how do you know Mr. Dunsmore?"

"Used tae work with him." It wasn't hard to tell that McVey was still being somewhat economical with not only the truth, but everything else.

"Work where?" Reid prompted.

"Er...in a pub."

_Here we go, yet another variation on the "I got it off a bloke in a pub" story,_ groaned Reid inwardly.

"And can you tell us which pub?" coaxed Sheila.

"Aye...naw...och, ah canny remember!" finished McVey angrily. "Listen, can ah no' get a drink?" He looked longingly at Reid, who was yet again quaffing mineral water.

"I'm afraid we don't provide alcohol..." began Boydeau, at which Stafford interrupted:

"That is a slur on my client! You're implying that he is an alcoholic. That's an uncalled-for racial stereotype, and I shall be making an official complaint against you for racist comments."

Reid and Boydeau, both speechless at this outburst, stared in amazement at Stafford, and McVey sat smugly with his arms folded across his chest. Luckily, the unexpected show of equal rights awareness provided the distraction Sheila needed to continue with her interrogation.

"I can get you a list of local public houses, if that would help," she offered politely. "I know a few of them myself...was it The George?"

McVey shook his head. "The White Bull? The Miller's Arms? Sweeney Todd's?" She reeled off.

"Naw, it wisny any o' them!" retorted McVey in frustration. "It wisny a pub near here. It wis...in Cornwall!" He finished triumphantly, and looked mightily pleased with this clever piece of imaginative fiction, which was sure to stump his adversaries.

Reid wanted to put his head in his hands, or even better, put McVey's head through the chipboard wall beside them. Sheila, however, could sense victory, and pressed home her advantage. "Cornwall? No problem at all, we can call the Devon & Cornwall police and verify that."

Her pen poised, she looked expectantly at McVey, who finally sagged in his seat and said, "Awright, it wisny a pub in Cornwall or anywhere. Ah didny know Dunsmore, ah never met him in ma life."

Boydeau raised her eyebrows. "You didn't know him? So were you there to meet him for the first time?"

"Aye, ye could say that," replied McVey wryly.

"Were you there to deliver a message to him for someone, and to collect something from the house?"

"Naw, nae drugs!" protested the scrawny little man, almost in terror.

"No, not drugs, we understand that," responded Sheila patiently. "But something else – maybe... information?"

McVey realised that they had known all along what he had been looking for in the house, and that realisation relieved him of his burden.

"Aye, information. Ah wis tae get a book that Dunsmore kept, a record book. Ah dinny know whit wis in it, just that it had names an' figures an' a' that kinda stuff in it, know?" He wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

"And who were you to give this book to?"

The wall came down again. "Naeb'dy. Nae comment. Ah want some tea!"

They would get no more for the time being, that much was clear. Sheila glanced at Reid, and at his frustrated nod of assent terminated the interview.

Stafford stood up and glared at them both. "You'll be hearing from me in due course," he barked and stumped out of the door.

The constable returned to conduct McVey back to the tender care of Sergeant Powling, and Reid and Boydeau were left to weigh up their position.

"What time is it?" Reid asked as they emerged onto the corridor.

Sheila was rummaging in her pockets. "Half eleven," she said, producing a packet of mints and holding them out to Reid.

He took one gratefully and aimed his empty water bottle at the bin. "Right. McVey will keep for a bit. Whoever wants that book, McVey's more scared of him than he is of us; no point banging our heads on _that_ brick wall. We've got a few hours before we can go over to the cash and carry, so let's get back to Fairfax Road. I want to get up into the woods and see what we can see before every trace gets obliterated by mountain bikes and bloody joggers."

**********

Back in the now-familiar kitchen, Reid, propped against the edge of the breakfast bar, looked out of the gaping hole in the glass top of the back door and up the slope to the markers placed by McGowan the day before, thinking aloud. "They wanted him out of the house so someone could get in for the book. But they weren't expecting uniform to turn up as quickly as they did; so they had to send McVey back for it today. Question is, who's "they", and where's Dunsmore?"

Boydeau, who had been standing in the dining-room, re-appeared, dropping her mobile phone back into her jacket pocket as she did so. She leaned forward over the sink and followed Reid's gaze up the hill. "Not back at work," she said. "Just checked with the cash-and-carry and no-one's seen hide nor hair of him since Friday night. My bet is he's in there, somewhere. Or he's in hiding."

Reaching a decision, Reid pushed himself upright. "One final check before we go crashing through the undergrowth," he said. "You got a second-hand on your watch?"

"Certainly have." She rolled back her sleeve and put her glasses on whilst Reid walked across to the phone, tiny fragments of broken glass scrunching under his feet. "Ready?" she asked. "Three … two… one…"

Reid picked up the phone, mimed dialling 999 and gave it a couple of seconds to metaphorically connect. Then he said: "'Ello, police! Yeah – somebody's thrown a bleeding great lump of rock through me front bay. Thirty-two Fairfax Road." He put the phone down, walked across to the window and stared up the hill again. Then he dashed across to what was left of the back door, threw it open, crossed the garden in half-a-dozen strides, clattered through the gate and sprinted along the path and up the slope, following the line of markers in the grass to the wood's edge.

Once there, he stood with his hands on his hips and waited for Boydeau, who was following more slowly. Gasping for breath, and reflecting ruefully that maybe she was right about the fags, he studied the length of fencing that formed the boundary at this point and saw that McGowan had been correct – the top two rails were broken at one end, and a tall man could have stepped over the lower section quite easily.

"Fifty-two seconds," Boydeau said as she reached his side.

He nodded. "So he could've been up here and well out of sight before the car even pulled up."

Swinging his long legs over the fence he turned and held out a hand to Boydeau. Giving him an old-fashioned look, she stepped onto the solid lower rung, grabbed the fence-post and hopped over onto the bare ground beneath the outer branches. "No tracks in here," she said. "Too dry."

"Let's assume he's still running." Reid stared around at the surrounding trunks. "He's going to take the path of least resistance, right?"

By mutual assent they set off in the direction of a gap in the undergrowth which showed definite signs of being crushed down. They were quite close to the crest of the hill now, and a few moments walking brought them to the top of the downward slope, where they stopped to consider again. The woods were not impenetrable, but it was early summer and patches of bracken and bramble grew thickly where sufficient sunlight penetrated the branches.

Reid pointed downslope to another flattened patch. "What do you think?" he asked.

"I think I'd have put different clothes on if I'd known I was going to be doing this," Boydeau responded tartly, picking goose-grass burrs from her trouser hems.

"Yeah – sorry about that. But there's no way Pyle's going to authorise a fingertip search of this place unless we can prove Dunsmore was here." Reid dipped automatically into his pocket and then sighed a little as he remembered that he was still a cigarette-free zone.

Boydeau gave up attempting to salvage her trousers and surveyed the ground before them. "I think you're probably right," she said. "I can't see anywhere else he could have gone. Watch it, though," she added as Reid set off down the slope. "It looks a bit steeper over there."

_It is, a bit…_ Reid thought as his shoes slithered a little on the flattened stems. But it definitely looked as if someone had been this way. There was a trampled patch in the bracken just ahead, and the ground was somewhat churned up. He altered direction slightly, heading towards a tree which was bigger than most, intending to catch the trunk and arrest his momentum. And the next second he'd put his foot on nothing at all, and was falling.

Boydeau, moving more cautiously, was several yards behind Reid when she saw him lurch forwards and disappear from sight, almost like a conjuring trick. It would very nearly have been funny, had she not been all too aware that he was just back from recuperating from a severe head trauma.

"Sarge?" she called out, scooting downward as quickly as she dared. "Reid?" Silence. "Terry?" A stream of vituperative swearing broke upon her ears and she sagged inwardly with relief. Covering the last few steps half on her hands and knees she found her superior officer scrambling back up the sloping side of a sudden drop. Standing up, she took firm hold of a low branch and reached out to help haul him to solid ground.

"Bloody hell!" he said as he reached her side, and sat down with a thump. Wordlessly she reached into her jacket pocket and passed him his cigarettes.

After a moment, she edged closer to the drop and peered out. Reid had been lucky – the place where he'd slipped had been just above a half-fallen tree which still had most of its roots in the soil, and he'd been able to grab it before he went right over. She craned out a little further. "It's a quarry, I think," she said. "Abandoned forever, by the look of it."

"Watch yourself!" he cautioned from behind her. "You'll be down there next!"

"Not me, sarge," Boydeau pushed herself away from the lip of the quarry and turned to face him. "But I think we've just got our fingertip search."

Shoving his cigarette into his mouth Reid stood up, took hold of the branch and leaned forward. At the bottom of the drop he could make out a huddled bundle, the limbs splayed awkwardly and the face turned up to the sky. "Bloody hell!" he repeated softly.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

By the time they had returned to Northcote nick, the place was going like a fair. PC McGowan was hitching up an incident caravan in the car park, and Brocklehurst was supervising this and several other uniformed officers in the style of a ringmaster.

"You there!" he bellowed at the unfortunate constable who happened to be nearest him. He didn't even attempt the recommended interpersonal skill of using her name. "Find DS Reid and tell him..." he broke off as he spotted Reid and Boydeau getting out of the car. "Ah, Reid," he said, abandoning the bemused policewoman, "I've been looking for you..."

"Been at the crime scene, sir, preserving it till the forensics lads got there."

"Excellent! Now, I need one of you to help me with a press conference – DC Boydeau, how do you feel about that?" suggested Brocklehurst, to Reid's utter relief. "It'll be about 6.30pm, just in time for the local news bulletin."

"Of course, sir," replied Boydeau, looking very faintly dismayed.

"You'll need to go home and change, can't have you appearing in front of the hacks looking like you've been dragged through a hedge backwards."

Reid's mouth twitched, but he kept on top of his desire to guffaw loudly.

"Yes, sir," said Sheila, throwing Reid a glare as Brocklehurst turned to make "hurry up" gestures to the struggling McGowan. "Meanwhile, I'd like to ask if DS Reid and I could continue with our enquiries; we feel we have a very positive lead to follow up..."

B.B. waved them away, his mind now seemingly racing ahead to other tasks. "On you go! Just make sure you're back here and ready to go in front of the cameras by 6.15 at the latest, all right?"

Sheila responded with another: "Yes, sir!", but the DCI was gone, lost in the tangle of comings and goings on the station steps.

Reid looked at Sheila with a touch of admiration. "You don't hang back, do you? Quick thinking."

"I didn't want to miss out on going over to the cash and carry," she said. "I've got the feeling we'll really be getting somewhere if we can speak to whoever's in charge there. And now there's a body involved Pyle's going to develop a sudden interest in this case. Anything newsworthy and he's all over it."

"Double quick thinking, then." Reid looked at the organised chaos around them. "If we take your car you can drive straight home and get ready for your moment of stardom."

She dug in her pocket and threw him the keys. "You drive then. I'll ring the cash and carry and tell them we're on the way."

******

Reid guided Boydeau's Vectra between the potholes that made up at least half of the track beside the warehouse. It led to the Gold Star Cash & Carry parking area, and from there he and Boydeau made their way into reception.

"Is the owner about? We'd like to speak to him." Reid showed his warrant card to the middle-aged woman who was perched on a stool behind the desk. She raised her eyebrows and said nothing, but lifted the phone and after a few seconds said, "Mr. Empey? There are two police...people...here to see you." She nodded, replaced the receiver and pointed languidly down a corridor. "Along there, turn left, the door facing you," she reeled off automatically.

"Thank you," replied Reid.

The receptionist muttered something that might have been, "Sod off and die," but Reid and Boydeau chose to ignore it, although both made mental notes regarding what they would do if they met the woman under less favourable circumstances.

Reid knocked once, sharply, on the door marked "Manager" and entered without waiting to be invited. The pair found themselves in a tiny office, lined with dark imitation wood panelling and dominated by a huge desk that had probably seen its best days twenty years earlier. Behind it sat a tanned, lean-looking man wearing gold-rimmed spectacles that Reid assumed he had found in the drawer of the desk when it was new. An unsubtle hairpiece and a brown pinstriped suit completed the ensemble. An image of Arthur Daley sprang into Boydeau's mind, and she knew that if she ever met George Cole she would have to apologise.

"What can I do for you, officers?" drawled the man, not stirring from his chair.

Reid pulled up a seat while Boydeau perused the spines of some lever arch files beside her. "I was hoping you could fill in some background on an employee of yours, a Paul Dunsmore."

The man's face gave away nothing. "Paul...Dunsmore..." he mulled aloud. He twirled his seat round and reached over to a bookcase for a hardback notebook, opened it, and ran his finger down the A-Z index tabs. "Paul Dunsmore. He's worked here for about seven months." The book was shut with a resounding _snap_.

Reid remained where he was, watching Empey unblinkingly while Sheila started to stroll around the rest of the shelves and take down a file here and there to read.

"I'm afraid that's really all I can tell you." Mr. Empey oozed fake charm, and Reid realised that the closer Sheila got to something useful, the smarmier Empey would get. She neared the filing cabinet in the corner and Reid thought the man was going to wet himself. "Sooo...would you like to see around the premises? Perhaps I can show you..."

Boydeau opened the middle drawer of the cabinet and Empey moved rapidly to close it. Through a forced smile, he said, "No search warrant, no files."

"No problem," she retorted, and dialled a number on her mobile. "Hello, I need a search warrant for the Gold Star Cash and Carry premises in Station Road...make it an all-inclusive one, we might as well search the place from top to bottom while we're here, never know what we could turn up...yes, bring bolt cutters, crowbars, the works...thanks, that's great." She hung up and smiled back at Empey, who was now perspiring freely. He took the only option open to him: he tried to leave the room.

Reid was leaning against the door, barring his way. "The terms of a search warrant require the owner of the premises, or their representative, to be present to receive the paperwork – unless you're under arrest at the time. If you'd prefer not to be in attendance, I can charge you here and now with obstruction. What's it to be?"

******

About an hour and a half later, the police van filling nicely with archive boxes, DS Reid flicked a cigarette butt into the rubbish bin at the entrance to the cash and carry. He arched an eyebrow at Boydeau as she emerged bearing the contents of the drawer Empey had been so keen to protect.

"Is that it?" asked Reid incredulously.

"This is all that was in that drawer. I had a nose around the rest of the cabinet, but this is the only mention I could find of Dunsmore. It's mostly his payroll records, plus his application form and a couple of references."

"Is it my imagination, or does Empey seem like he's a man with a lot more to hide than some iffy personnel records?" pondered Reid.

"Way more, sarge," answered Boydeau. "But I think it'll be tomorrow at the earliest before we can start to put all this..." she waved in the direction of the growing stack of documents, "...in some semblance of order, and get any useful information out of it. Meanwhile," glancing at her watch, "I need to get changed for my date with the DCI."

"You do that, I'll get a lift back to the factory with the lads in the van," offered Reid.

"Thanks!"

Sheila went over to her car, and Reid called out as she opened the driver's door: "Break a leg!"

"Thought that was your department, sarge," she shot back, jumping in behind the wheel and starting the engine before he could reply. Shaking his head and grinning to himself, Reid headed back into the warehouse to cadge his lift.

******

A bawdy cheer went up around the CID office the following morning as Sheila Boydeau entered. She bowed her thanks, there were a few whistles, and she reached her desk to find somebody had gone to the bother of going out and buying a replica Oscar statuette and having it engraved, "To Sheila Boydeau - The Laughing Cow award for Excessive Cheese". She sighed at the thought of being lumbered with that nickname for the foreseeable future.

There was also a rather nice bouquet of flowers, which she suspected were from Reid, but nobody seemed to know, and rather than push it and embarrass her guv'nor, she let it drop. When he appeared ten minutes later the blooms were adorning a vase she'd managed to scrounge from the DCI's secretary, and neither Reid nor Sheila referred to the matter. He nodded towards his office, so she got her notes and some files and met him there upon his return from the coffee machine.

"Right, I made a start on some of this stuff last night," Reid announced. "Pretty irrelevant, most of it, so I think we'll set a couple of the new kids on it, hone their observational and analytical skills and all that, while we go back to the warehouse and speak to as many bodies there as we can, find out a bit of background on Dunsmore. Cos Empey sure as hell isn't saying much. And talking of toerags, what about the Lying Scotsman? Is he still with us?"

"Bailed to return after he'd had his breakfast this morning, sarge. I left a note last night for uniform to follow him if he was released, and make sure the address he'd given us was kosher," Boydeau answered.

Reid made a face that implied he would rather have locked McVey up and thrown away the key, but he nodded and looked expectantly at Sheila, who went on, "I got hold of one of Dunsmore's referees on the phone yesterday afternoon, some bloke who runs an auto parts business near Maidstone. He remembered Dunsmore, everything checked out all right with him. I tried ringing the number on the other letter, but it was unobtainable. I'll have someone chase the name up on the electoral register and see what we get."

"Good, and while they're at it, see if they can find out exactly where Dunsmore was living _before_ he moved to Fairfax Road."

"Will do. Meet you down at the car, or have you not had breakfast yet – again?" enquired Sheila.

"Ha bloody ha. This is breakfast -" Reid held up his coffee cup.

"...and you had the cigarette course in the car on the way in?" finished Boydeau, and disappeared off to delegate the admin tasks to the trainees.

Left alone, Reid wandered down to the car and perched himself on the bonnet to fit in a pre-Sheila cigarette. He'd worked late, breaking off to watch the press-conference, got home even later, showered the soil out of his hair, eaten half a takeaway, gone to bed late and crashed awake, sweating and tangled in his duvet, at 4-30am. Unable to get back to sleep he'd listened to the World Service and drunk a lake of tea, and was consequently feeling less than charitable toward his fellow man.

Boydeau appeared within ten minutes, a clip-board under her arm and a carrier-bag in her hand. As she approached she reached into the bag and produced a small package which she threw to Reid. He grabbed it reflexively and found himself holding a paper bag containing a still-warm bacon sandwich.

"I'm driving," Boydeau announced, holding out her hand for the keys. "And you owe me one pound fifty."

******

This time on arrival at Gold Star, Reid and Boydeau dispensed with the formality of presenting themselves at the reception desk, and went straight to Empey's office, where they found him arguing hotly with someone on the phone. As soon as he saw them, however, he hissed, "Call you back!" and slammed the receiver down.

"We're here to interview your staff, Mr. Empey, so if you could make a room available for us to do that, we'll try and minimise the disruption to your business," said Sheila briskly. As he gawped at her, unable to take it in, she brandished her clipboard and added, "I've got a list of all your current employees here, so we'll get going," then turned and made off in the direction of the shop floor.

Reid smiled and fell into step beside her, murmuring, "Nice one!", and Empey ran to catch up with them.

"And I think we'll start with...Ms Ellis," said Sheila, reading the receptionist's name badge. The surly woman looked at Empey for confirmation, but all he could do was shrug his shoulders in defeat. Ellis rolled her eyes and tutted.

"This'll do nicely," Reid decided, switching on the light in a room at the side of the reception area. "Just the job." He placed two chairs strategically behind the table, and one in front of it, then stood by the door, arms folded, looking pointedly at Ellis. She reluctantly slid off her seat and tip-tapped across the foyer on high heels.

"Thank you, Mr. Empey, we'll let you know if we need anything," Sheila informed him.

Reid leaned to one side so Empey could see him and said, "Some coffee and biscuits would be nice, thanks." The door closed in the manager's face, and it was all he could do not to kick it down.

******

"How many more of these do we have to do?" Reid pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, sighed heavily, and moved his hands to interlock behind his head. He sat back in the chair and stretched his legs out.

Boydeau ran her pen down the clipboard. "Four more," she replied, and went out to the reception desk, where there was a copy of the list. Ms Ellis gave her an evil look, but pulled the tannoy mike towards her and said, "Jack Richardson to reception, please. Jack Richardson."

A few minutes passed, and then a man in his fifties with completely white hair came round the corner. He was dressed in a check shirt and overalls, and his name tag confirmed that he was their next interviewee.

"Mr. Richardson," smiled Boydeau. "Have a seat." She closed the door behind them.

Reid introduced himself and Sheila, offered the man a cup of coffee, which he accepted, and began.

"So how many years have you worked here, Mr. Richardson?"

"Call me Jack. Wow..." he ran a hand through his spectacular quiff, "...must be goin' on thirty years now." He laughed easily. "More than half my life, that is."

Reid matched Richardson's friendly, conversational tone. "That's a West Country accent, unless I'm much mistaken, Jack. Whereabouts are you from originally?"

This seemed to throw Richardson for a nanosecond, and only Reid's trained eye detected it, as the man recovered and replied, "Launceston, in Cornwall".

Sheila and Reid exchanged a brief glance at this second mention of Cornwall in twenty-four hours.

"Lovely place, I believe," Reid went on.

"Oh yes. I go back there as often as I can for my holidays."

"And do you know a Paul Dunsmore?" asked Sheila.

Richardson looked startled by this abrupt change of subject, but nevertheless answered, "Why, yes, of course I know Paul. He works here."

"Does he work with you?" enquired Reid, pouring himself another coffee.

"Yes, sometimes. I'm mostly on the forklift. He's kind of the gopher, filling in wherever the boss wants him to."

"So you know him pretty well, then?"

Richardson raised his eyebrows and answered, "Well enough. We chat about the weather, football, that sort of thing."

"Have a drink together after work?" prompted Boydeau.

The man considered this, and took a sip of his coffee. "You know," he mused, "now that you come to mention it, I don't recall that we ever have. And yet, we have works nights out regular-like, everybody down at The White Bull for karaoke or what have you...but I can't remember ever seeing Paul at any of them."

"So that's a no, then?" Sheila clarified.

"Well...he _might_ have been there, but I just didn't see him. There's always a bit of a crowd, there's dozens of folks works here, so I suppose I could just have missed him. Gets a bit woozy after a few pints, you know?" he winked, and grinned conspiratorially at the pair across the table.

Reid sighed. This was going nowhere fast. He felt the interview had run its course, and stood up.

"Thanks for your help, Jack, we'll let you get back to your forklift now." He extended his hand and was rewarded with a firm handshake.

"No trouble. Ever I can help you again, just say." He gave a one-finger salute as if Reid were the lord of the manor, and sauntered off into the warehouse, waving cheerily at Ms Ellis as he went.

Sheila was still sitting in the side room, trying to assess the interview. Reid pulled up the chair that Richardson had used, and asked her, "What did you make of that, then?"

"I don't know, sarge, it was one of the most peculiar interviews I've ever done. He was relaxed, positive, helpful but not overly so – I can't think what to make of it, to be honest. And what was that..." - she pantomimed Richardson's parting gesture to Reid - "...the farmhand tugging his forelock or something?" She shook her head in amused disbelief.

"Yes, I think that was probably an aaarr too far," replied Reid with a grin. "Add that to 'Call me Jack', and the jolly tales of their rowdy nights out and his holidays – and we've got a bloke making sure he can prove to us that he'd nothing to hide…"

"Which, of course, means that he has," finished Boydeau.

"Exactly." Reid thought for a moment, checked his watch, and said, "I think we'll knock it on the head for today. I'd like to go back to the office and do a spot of checking up on Mr. Richardson. We can do the last three tomorrow, what do you say?"

"Works for me, sarge. I'll just go and let Mrs. Happy know that we're finished here."

Reid gave a lopsided smirk, stood up and turned out the light as he left.


	7. Chapter 7

**_A nice big chunky chapter this one._**

**_Please do comment if you read._**

**_We're needy!_**

**_

* * *

  
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**Chapter Seven**

As they walked in through the swing doors, Coleman waved a sheaf of papers in their direction from behind the desk and they veered toward him. "Messages," he said. "Sod's law, innit – you're out for the morning and everyone wants to talk to you."

Reid leaned one elbow on the desk and riffled through the sheets. "Pyle wants to see me asap…" he put that to the bottom of the heap "… McGowan's got nothing on Dunsmore's referee from the electoral rolls and wants to know what we want him to do next; coroner can't do anything till late on this afternoon… and … ha!" - he held out the last sheet for Boydeau to look at – "Sounds like our window-bricker Colin Whyte's finally turned up."

"Oh yeah – that only came in a few minutes ago, otherwise I'd have rung you." Coleman looked at the pad he used to scribble his own notes on. "Leo Gent rang in at half twelve to say he'd just seen someone going in through the side-door of the house looking a bit furtive. They're still in there – or at least, he hasn't told me any different."

"Tell him to sit on it, we're on our way," Reid said as he and Boydeau headed back toward the car-park.

"What shall I tell Haemorrhoids?" Coleman asked

"Tell him he can sit on it an' all," retorted Reid, vanishing through the door.

Boydeau paused and looked back at Coleman. "Please tell DI Pyle that DS Reid said he'll get back to him at the earliest possible opportunity but he's currently following up an important lead."

"That's exactly what I thought he said," came the amused reply. Boydeau rolled her eyes and hurried after her boss.

*****************

They caught Leo Gent and his partner grabbing a quick lunch in their car; as Boydeau opened the rear door the scent of fresh pastry drifted enticingly out to meet them.

"Don't suppose you bought enough for four?" she asked, scooting across to let Reid climb in behind her.

Gent glanced in the rear-view mirror. "Get lost, Sheila!" he said cheerfully. "You're not the one who's been sat in here getting deep vein thrombosis since eight o'clock this morning!"

"We'll have a whip-round and pay for your amputation," Reid said dryly, slamming the door. "Which house are we looking at?"

Claire Jordan, Gent's partner, pointed through the windscreen. "Third one down on the left," she said. "A taxi dropped him off and he went in the side door. No-one's left since; we can see all the entrances from here and there's no back access. Big brick wall and an alleyway that comes out down there."

"Righto." Reid thought for a moment. "Give me a minute to bring my car round, then we'll all go over together. Jordan, you knock at the front; he's more likely to open the door to someone he doesn't recognise. Leo, cover the side door - Sheila and I'll take the alleyway."

Leaving Boydeau with the others, Reid made his way back to his own car which he'd parked round the corner. He three-pointed it and drove round the block so that he could park well back from the house, facing Gent's Astra on the opposite side of the street.

As soon as Reid pulled up, Jordan emerged from the front seat of the Astra and Gent locked the car and walked over to the mouth of the driveway where he paused, apparently to answer a call on his mobile. Boydeau crossed the road to join Reid and they walked up the pavement, re-crossed the road out of sight of the house and walked back to stand at a convenient bus-stop just by the mouth of the alleyway.

Jordan checked to ensure everyone was in position and then rang the bell. The curtains of the bay window twitched fractionally, there was a scuffling sound inside the house, and then the side door flew open and a figure came hurtling out. Gent made a neat lunge and blocked the runner's path whilst Jordan closed in swiftly at the rear. The would-be fugitive turned to evade Gent, found Jordan right behind him, and made as if to dash between the parked cars into the road. As he stepped off the kerb, Reid loomed up in front of him, Boydeau appeared alongside Jordan, and their quarry was neatly encircled.

"Aw, hey - can ye no' leave me alone?" wailed Gordon McVey as Gent grabbed his wrists and pinned them tightly behind his back. "Ah'll have the lot of youse for harassment!"

" 'Fraid not, sorry," Sheila snapped on the handcuffs as Jordan unlocked the rear door of the Astra. "Detectives Gent and Jordan are going to give you a ride back to your nice comfy cell and then we've got a gentleman coming to look at you and tell us that you're called Colin Whyte and you sell knock-offs in his pub. In the meantime, "Mr Whyte", you're being arrested for vandalism and on suspicion of attempted burglary at thirty-five Fairfax Road…"

"Ye cannae dae that!" McVey wriggled in Gent's grasp. "Ah've been given bail. Ye cannae re-arrest me for the same offence…"

"It's not the same offence." Reid, who had taken the opportunity to light up and had been propped on the bonnet of the Astra surveying the scene, took the cigarette out of his mouth and walked slowly over. He was a good six inches taller than McVey, who looked up at him warily. "We had you for breaking and entering via the back door. This is for bricking the front window the day before and legging it round the corner before the police turned up. So shut up and listen to the nice lady – got it?"

"… you do not have to say anything," Sheila went on seamlessly, "but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you say may be given in evidence…"

"…assuming we can understand it." Reid finished under his breath and she glanced at him reprovingly.

Gent gave McVey a none-too-gentle shove downward into the back seat of the Astra and then climbed in beside him; with Jordan at the wheel the Astra nosed back out into the traffic.

"Neat as you like," Boydeau remarked as they walked back to Reid's Mondeo.

"Can you believe the stupid sod came straight back here?" Reid shook his head as he swung himself into the driver's seat. "Let's take a turn round by Fairfax Road and see if we can get Dunsmore's neighbour in to do an id for us."

"Can we call in at that bakery first, sarge? My stomach thinks my throat's been cut."

Reid grinned as he looked for a parking place. "Pity we didn't think to ask Jordan and Gent to give us their stuff," he said. "They'll have lost their appetites after a ride back to town with that smelly little toerag in the car!"

*********************************

In Reid's experience, police coroners were a funny bunch. All that hanging round dead bodies, he supposed, being exposed to the worst of man's inhumanity to man. Jane Catchpole was the exception that proved the rule; a dark-haired, attractively elfin individual with a brisk but compassionate demeanour. She glanced up from her notes and smiled as Reid came in. "Good to have you back, sergeant. I've got everything ready for you."

He followed her across to the sheeted figure on the slab and stood with his hands in his pockets whilst she picked up her clip-board and flicked through the sheets.

"The first thing I can definitely tell you is: he's not your Mr Dunsmore. Too young."

She gently turned back the sheet and Reid flinched inwardly. _Just a kid – eighteen? twenty?_ A shock of very black hair and a thin, good-looking face. Stark against the white sheet, the boy looked like the victim of a vampire from a trendy teen horror flick.

"The other definite fact is that he was an intravenous drug user," Catchpole continued, turning one pale arm so that the scars of the needle-tracks were clearly visible. "What's less clear is whether drugs contributed to his death. These are all old marks, a couple of months at least…" she ran gentle gloved fingers over the scarring and then tucked the arm back into place "… and I can't find any physical evidence of recent drug use. Was there any paraphernalia found at the scene?" Reid shook his head by way of reply and she continued: "I've sent off a blood-sample for analysis, but I'll be very surprised if it comes back positive for anything harder than cannabis."

"He didn't OD, then?"

"No sign of it."

"So what are we looking at?"

Catchpole sighed. "This is where we get into shades of grey, sergeant. I can give you a range of contributory factors which combined to cause his death; I wouldn't like to pick out one definitive cause."

She turned the sheet back further, exposing the youth's torso and lower abdomen, and Reid drew in his breath with a soft hiss of sympathy.

"A number of broken bones," Catchpole said quietly, "including a severe blow to the head. Internal bleeding, damage to several major organs. It looks as though he fell – and fell some distance."

Reid clenched his fists in his pockets to stop his stomach from lurching as his brain involuntarily replayed the moment of sick horror when his own foot, expecting soil, had met only space; and then across his mind's eye flashed the image of there being no rough slap of bark against his groping hands, but only more air, and the plunge… he hunched his shoulders with a shiver and forced himself back to the present. "Did the fall kill him outright?"

"I doubt it." Catchpole's finger traced the outline of the dark bruising across the abdomen. "You see this here, and again here… these bruises developed after the event, and the abdominal haemorrhage was quite considerable. There's some evidence of hypothermia; I suspect he was unconscious or even semi-conscious for a number of hours. He'd been dead maybe twenty-four hours when you found him."

"Any sign of an attack or an assault?" Reid broke in, pushing away the image of this skinny kid slowly bleeding to death at the foot of a cliff, less than a hundred yards from the nearest house, and with the police searching a crime scene two minutes away.

Catchpole shook her head. "Nothing obvious. Here's the head wound…" she tilted the boy's chin and turned the head so that Reid could see the dip in the skull and the ripped scalp and wonder if that was what his surgeon had seen ten months ago "… but it could quite feasibly have been caused by him cracking his head as he fell. Nothing to indicate anyone hit him, poor little sod."

"Pushed?"

She frowned. "He fell hard," she said slowly, "and there's no damage to his hands, which suggests he didn't have the chance to grab at anything to save himself. So that suggests that either he didn't see the edge at all, or – yes, possibly, he could have been pushed. Do you think this was deliberate?"

"Who knows?" Reid shrugged wearily. "Wrong place at the wrong time, maybe. Thanks, anyway."

"Always a pleasure, sergeant." Catchpole gently re-covered the boy's body and stripped off her gloves as she walked back to the door. "I printed off a copy of my report," she added, handing it over. "I hope it has everything you need."

He gave her a nod by way of further thanks and left the echoing room. He should have gone to meet Sheila Boydeau in his office, but instead headed for the car-park, feeling a sudden, if slightly contradictory, longing for fresh air and a fag.

*****************************

Boydeau tapped her fingers on her desk thoughtfully and eyed her phone. Reid could be infuriating, incommunicative and difficult, but he was generally punctual and she'd been expecting a call from him for the last half hour. After waiting for twenty minutes she'd tried his mobile and found that it was switched off; after a further eight and a half minutes she'd tried the coroner's extension to be told that Reid had left there almost an hour before. Torn between exasperation and unease, Sheila dithered for a moment more and then picked up her receiver and dialled Coleman at the front desk.

"What, Reid?" came the cheery response to her somewhat terse query. "I know where he is, Shee – no worries."

"What the hell is he doing out there?" Boydeau demanded of Coleman thirty seconds later, peering out across the staff car-park to where Reid was propped against the retaining wall of the raised flower-bed.

"Smoking?" suggested Coleman helpfully and received a withering look in response. He ducked his head a little to look through the glass doors at the solitary figure. "Thinking. Introspecting. Disappearing up his own bum. Any or all of the above. Didn't say anything to me as he went out, so I thought he was off somewhere. I only realised he was sitting there when I went to get my paper out of the car." He jabbed a thumb at the front desk where resided a slightly dog-eared Daily Mirror.

Boydeau studied the back of Reid's head thoughtfully and then came to a decision. "Time he climbed back out, I think."

As Coleman looked on with amusement she collected two teas from the hot drinks machine, reversed carefully out of the swing doors and set off across the tarmac. Reid could be bloody-minded, Coleman thought, but he might just have met his match in Sheila Boydeau.

The staff car-park at Northcote was overlooked by the kitchens on one side, the back wall of the cells and the toilets on another and the big rubbish-skips on the third; a fairly malodorous combination but one which made it an effective bolt-hole in mid-shift when it was pretty much deserted.

Reid didn't look up as Sheila approached; he either hadn't heard her coming or was refusing to acknowledge her presence. He looked tired and there were three or four dog-ends scattered on the floor at his feet. Setting down his cup on the flat top of a convenient bollard she hitched herself up onto the wall beside him and sipped at her own drink. After a long pause she ventured: "Sarge?"

There was no response, and for some moments they sat on, Boydeau with her drink and Reid with his thousand-mile stare and his cigarette, the smoke curling in slow wisps from his slightly-parted lips. Eventually he sighed, ground out the cigarette on the wall beside him, flicked the end to the floor to lie with the others, and turned his head toward her with the air of a man returning from a long journey.

"Tea?" prompted Sheila, picking up the cup and holding it out. "Though I wouldn't be prepared to swear by that description in a court of law."

That won her a half-amused snort and he took the cup and peered into it, considering. "Might pass on a dark night."

They were silent again, Reid still deep in contemplation and Boydeau unwilling to push him into a conversation which he didn't want. Seeming at last to reach a resolution, Reid reached over to his right and picked up a few sheets of folded A4 paper which he handed to her. "Have a read of that, will you, Sheila – tell me what you think."

Unfolding the document she found herself looking at the police coroner's report on an unidentified male, aged approximately nineteen. When she looked up at Reid he'd lit another cigarette and deliberately turned his head to look away from her, and so she turned back to the document and read the whole thing carefully, twice through – the first time to try and discern what had so troubled her boss, and the second time to check details and roll the information around her brain a little. Reid, she realised, was asking her to be objective where he could not.

"Time and place of death are significant," Sheila said carefully, holding the papers on her lap. "He died just around the time Dunsmore disappeared, in the woods directly behind Dunsmore's house. It _could_ be a coincidence, but…" she broke off, half-expecting Reid to finish the thought for her. When he didn't chime in she went on: "I think we at least need to eliminate any possible link between the two events. And I'd like to find out his name, let his family know we've got him." Sneaking a sideways glance she saw a change in Reid's demeanour. He still wasn't looking at her but had stopped staring into the sky and appeared now to be thinking rather than wrestling with demons.

"If he was a user," Reid said at last, "we might have a file on him for possession or petty crime. Let's run him through the computer and see what it spits out."

Suddenly decisive he rose to his feet and was halfway across the car-park before Sheila had collected up the cups. She hurried in his wake, muttering under her breath: "_…thanks for understanding, Sheila …. no problem, Sarge, any time…"_ Not until she reached the doors did she realise that he'd stopped to hold one open for her and in doing so had caught the gist of what she was saying. Dropping the cups in the nearest bin she shot him a warning glare and in return received an almost boyish smile of thanks. They entered the building side by side.

"Pyle's on the warpath," Coleman warned as they rounded the corner. "He's looking for you."

"Let him look!" Reid snapped without breaking stride.

"You know what he means," Boydeau said out of the corner of her mouth.

"Got it off by heart!" Coleman assured her.

*********************************

In Reid's office, Boydeau fired up the absent DS Hannigan's computer as they prepared for a long hunt. "What shall we start with?" she asked as the monitor lit up and the hard drive ground into action.

Reid was standing behind his chair, propping himself on the desk with one hand whilst he pecked at the keyboard with the other. "I've got collars for possession here; you start with minor offences – shoplifting, that sort of thing."

Sheila frowned at the screen through her glasses. "There's pages here – it'll take forever and we need something to show Pyle as soon as poss. Hang on – let me modify this search…" She tapped in a fresh word and hit Return. "I think I've got him, sarge!"

"That was quick!" Abandoning his own station Reid came across to look over her shoulder.

"I cross-referenced it with reports of missing persons." Boydeau pushed her glasses up onto her head and sat back in the chair so that she wasn't blocking Reid's view. "There's a note on his file to say his mother rang in yesterday and said she hadn't seen him since Monday morning and was worried, but because he's over eighteen and he's only been missing a day or so it wasn't classed as a priority…"

They stared together at the picture of the dead boy.

"Tom Ainslie," Reid read aloud. "No Dad on the scene?"

"None mentioned here." Replacing her glasses, Sheila scrolled down the page, skimming the information. "Cautions for possessing cannabis, then a collar for heroin about four months ago. He agreed to go into a treatment centre and got a suspended, then nothing on the file after that – not till his mum rang in." She printed off a copy of the file and handed it up to Reid. "You want me to get hold of his mum?" she asked casually.

"If you would, and I'll speak to Catchpole about getting him ready for her to come in and identify him. Then I'm going to get caught up on some of this stuff from the cash and carry. Can't have Mr Empey thinking we've forgotten him. Give us a call when you've tracked Mrs Ainslie down." He held up his mobile and waggled it at her pointedly.

Boydeau nodded her understanding and was careful to ignore the sight of her boss reaching over to unplug his internal extension as she headed out through the door. She was a couple of paces down the corridor when she heard the lock click behind her, and five paces later she rounded the corner and found herself face-to-face with a purposeful-looking DI Pyle.

"Don't think he's there, sir," she said. "I've just come from his office and the door's locked."

"Where the hell is he then?" Pyle demanded. "I've got half a station full of boxes of paper you two dragged back from that cash and carry, a dead junkie on the slab downstairs and total radio silence from DS bloody Reid!"

Boydeau stayed carefully expressionless. "I believe he's following up an important lead, sir," she replied. "I'll tell him you were looking for him when I see him next."

Pyle regarded her with suspicion and she gave him an efficient smile. "If you'll excuse me, sir, I have a call waiting at my desk."

He hesitated, threw her a last distrustful look and strode back down the corridor in the direction of his own domain.

Sheila gave a little sigh of relief. Like Reid, she wanted to keep Tom Ainslie's identity between the two of them for now, at least until she'd had a chance to find his mother and formally identify the body. They hadn't been able to save Tom, she and Reid, but at least they could break the news to his mother in the way that she and her son deserved.


	8. Chapter 8

_**The plot, we hope, thickens...**_

_**Anybody got any guesses yet?**_

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

Reid leaned back in his chair and ran his fingers through the sides of his hair in an attempt to restart his brain. He'd updated his notes ready for the inevitable encounter with Pyle, and was developing a sinking feeling that they were building up a huge stack of tangled questions and finding no answers. Sheila had called him shortly after leaving his office to say that Mrs Ainslie worked as a nurse and was on a late shift, and they had decided that rather than dragging her away from work and putting her through the ordeal of an identification and an interview in the middle of the night it would be more politic to speak to her the following day.

Opening his writing pad he tore off a fresh sheet, laid it on top of the file and picked up his pen. He needed to at least bring the mass of jumbled fragments swimming around his brain into some sort of order to give himself some chance of sleeping that night. In his firm, neat block capitals he bullet-pointed his thoughts:

_Finish interviews at C&C – follow up any pointers. NB – Jack Richardson?_

_Contact Catchpole re blood analysis_

_Get Sheila to bring Mrs A in for interview_

_Dunsmore's referee – chase up the search on who and where they are_

_McVey – charges? Who's pulling his strings?_

_Where the bloody hell is Dunsmore??????_

This last he underlined several times and scowled down at the paper. Nothing was any less a mystery, but at least now he knew the main lines of enquiry he wanted to pursue over the next couple of days. Straightening the paper neatly on top of the folder and laying the pen across it he stood up and rolled his shoulders a few times to ease the stiffness from his joints. He'd sent Sheila home some time before, and the evening stretched before him, uninvitingly blank. Another takeaway in front of TV he didn't really fancy watching, he supposed.

Taking down his coat from the back of the door he shrugged into it, and as he did so he felt something heavy in the pocket bump against his thigh. Startled, he delved into the folds of material and emerged with a chicken salad sandwich in a paper bag, on the outside of which Sheila had written: "You can get some chips to go with it on your way home." Grinning, he put the bag back in his pocket and unlocked the door. Boydeau clearly had an obsession with food. Maybe he should recommend her a good therapist.

***********************************

As he walked in through the door of his flat, chips under his arm, the phone was ringing. Kicking the door shut and grabbing up a newspaper from the armchair he picked up the receiver and shoved it between his shoulder and his jaw.

"'Ello?" he enquired into the mouthpiece, putting the paper down on the coffee table and dropping the packet of chips on top of it.

"Hiya, Dad," Danny greeted him chirpily. "I wanted to ring you on Monday but Mum said you'd be really busy. Have you got the tickets?"

"Certainly have!" The sandwich in its bag joined the chips on top of the paper and he sat down on the sofa. "Ask your Mum: Are we allowed to go out for lunch first and take Katie?"

He moved the phone hastily away from his ear as Danny unleashed a full-throated bellow: "Mu-u-um! Dad says can he take me and Katie out for some dinner on Saturday before the football... can we go to McDonald's, Dad?" he added at normal volume.

"Dunno about that. Shouldn't we be doing healthy eating?" Reid asked, hypocritically pushing a few chips into his mouth.

Danny sighed. "I _am_ healthy... go on, Dad, please!"

"Don't tell your mother!"

"I won't – she's here, d'you want to talk to her?"

"Please."

A bit of rustling and clunking and then Louise's voice: "How's things, Terry?"

Still that edge of trepidation in her tone, he noted, even after the treatment for his addiction, the AA meetings and the counselling; what would it take for her to trust him completely again? "Not bad, so far," he said, keeping his own voice purposely light. "Getting back into the swing of it. All right to take the kids out for lunch on Saturday?"

"They'd like that," Louise said. "Thanks for getting the tickets. He's been driving me mad with that match for months."

"Not a problem. Shall I come round for about twelve, then?"

Danny reclaimed the receiver to rattle on about a history project they were doing at school and dressing up as a Roman, and Katie, always shy on the phone, was prevailed upon to say hello and giggle a lot. By the time the phone-call was at an end Reid had finished most of his food and was in a hugely improved frame of mind. He wandered through to put the kettle on and browsed the newspaper as it boiled, then settled himself with his cup of tea to watch a police procedural and amuse himself by spotting all the ridiculous mistakes and exaggerations.

The programme was jaw-droppingly bad, and Reid's eyelids were drooping when the anti-establishment lead character sipped his single malt and brooded to his beautiful-but-intelligent female counterpart about the outcome of their spectacularly gory murder case all hanging on a particular phone-call. The rest of the plot passed him by un-noticed as the phrase triggered an image of Empey hurriedly ending his phone conversation when Reid and Boydeau walked into his office.

Reid replayed the moment several times in his mind's eye until he was sure of it – the sideways glance of horror, the garbled words, the sudden slamming-down of the receiver. Whoever had been on the other end of that phone was part of the answer to one of their questions, and because they knew exactly what time the call had been made they could, with luck, pinpoint the number the call had been made to. It might lead them up against another brick wall, it might be another maddening spiral – or it might just be the first step forward toward a solution. He made a mental addition at the top of his To Do List: get Empey's telephone records first thing in the morning.

Getting up, he flicked off the TV and scooped up the pile of paper and packets from the coffee table, scrunching them into a ball to deposit them in the bin. He had a strict "no fags in the bedroom" rule which was a hangover from the old days when he couldn't trust himself not to fall asleep with a lit one in his hand and set the place on fire, and habitually smoked his last one of the day whilst pottering around and tidying the already tidy flat. Knowing that he was putting off going to bed, he read the rest of the paper and dotted the cigarette out in the sink, rinsing the ash away and putting the tab-end carefully into the bin.

This was the hardest time of the day – with no distractions from his own thoughts, this was when he craved a drink the most. Or anything else that might hold out the false promise of oblivion. What he'd come to recognise was that there was no escape; or not without a penalty which he was no longer willing to pay. And so each evening he fought his private battle, lining up his weapons – a magazine, a couple of paperbacks, the radio tuned to a talk station to give him a background buzz of human contact, some basic relaxation techniques he'd learned from Camille. She'd suggested chamomile tea and lavender oil as well, but he hadn't quite been able to bring himself to the point of trying those, though he did sometimes make himself a cup of hot milk in the microwave.

The trick with the books, he had discovered, was to pick ones that were interesting enough to keep his brain occupied but not so fascinating that they kept him alert; his current read, a Peter Ackroyd book about London, was absorbing, but the language and sentence structure were so dense that he rarely got through more than a couple of chapters before nodding off.

His dreams that night were, inevitably, of falling, and he twitched himself into semi-wakefulness three or four times before finally drifting into a deeper sleep. Mercifully, the full-blown nightmares to which he was still frequently prone remained at bay and he slept through until his alarm sounded the start of another day.

*********************************

Boydeau arrived early for work on Thursday morning, as arranged, and headed straight for Reid's office. Finding it locked she rang his mobile, expecting to hear it ring from behind the door, and was slightly startled when she heard nothing.

"Where are you?" she asked when he answered.

"In the canteen, of course." His voice was innocence itself. "Thought I'd have some breakfast…"

He had, in fact, cleared off a couple of rounds of toast by the time Boydeau arrived, and was sipping at the last of his coffee. "Not a word!" he warned her as she sat down opposite, and she contented herself with a slightly smug smile. "Okay – what time did Mrs Ainslie's shift finish?"

"Half nine last night, sarge. I think if we go round there for about ten this morning she'll be up and about."

"Sounds reasonable." He set down his mug and folded his arms on the table, leaning forward. "Gives us time to make things look a bit nicer, too. Right. Before we do anything else, I want to get hold of Empey's phone records, try and find out who he was taking to when we caught him on the hop the other morning. If you can get that ball rolling now, I'll see if the results of the blood tests on the kid are back, then I reckon we clear out of here for an hour or two and get the last of those interviews done up at the cash and carry."

Sheila nodded. "DI Pyle's going to do his nut when he finally catches up with you," she observed warningly.

Reid gave a little shrug. "Probably. Won't be the first bollocking I've caught, won't be the last. I'm not having him stomping all over our case in his size fifteens till I absolutely have to. Anyway…" he sat back in the chair and grinned at her lopsidedly. "The Chief told you we could continue with our enquiries."

"Hmmmmm." Boydeau sounded dubious. "I don't think this was quite what he had in mind."

************************************

They were at the Gold Star just on opening time, and both enjoyed the sucking-a-lemon look on Ms Ellis' face when she caught sight of them.

"That room still free, is it?" Reid asked, swinging open the door in question without being asked and flicking on the light. "Lovely. We've got three or four names on our list we haven't spoken to yet, so if you could line them up for us..."

"I'll have to inform Mr Empey of your presence," Ellis reached for her phone.

"No need," Reid told her cheerfully. "DC Boydeau's popped through to see him already." He made a careful note of the look of hastily-suppressed dismay on the receptionist's face and pulled Sheila's list out of his breast pocket, running his finger down the names. "I'll start with Kathryn Kingswood, please."

Boydeau reappeared a few moments later. "Jumped like a shot rabbit," she said in answer to Reid's questioning look. "He's guilty as sin, sarge. I just don't know what he's guilty of. Yet."

They soon wrapped up their outstanding tasks and were on their way once more. The final three interviewees added little of value to their information, but it was a task ticked off the list and the visit had confirmed their suspicions that Empey was up to no good. Reid had also pretty much confirmed in his own mind that Ms Ellis had a fair idea what was going on, but that she had a massive crush on her boss and there was no way they'd wring anything out of her.

He was quiet as they drove across to Mrs Ainslie's home, and Boydeau looked across at him. "Going to be all right, sarge?"

He nodded. "Don't like doing these," he said.

Sheila sighed. "Don't think anyone does, do they?"

************************************

Mrs Ainslie was tall and slim and dark-haired, like her dead son, and smiled as she opened the door to them.

"Mrs Ainslie? I'm DC Boydeau, this is DS Reid."

They watched the enquiring look on her face slide away into shattering grief and she took a faltering step backwards. "You'd better come in."

Feeling male and awkward, Reid made tea in the pretty kitchen whilst Boydeau held Mrs Ainslie's hands in both hers and, as gently as was possible under the circumstances, told her of their discovery of her son's body. As he carried the tray carefully through, Reid heard Mrs Ainslie ask, brokenly: "Was it an overdose?"

He hurried to put down the tray and sat down opposite her. "We don't think so." She looked up at him, eyes very green in her pale face. "The coroner's sent off a blood-sample for analysis and we won't get the results till this afternoon, but there's no physical sign of any drug-taking."

"Oh, thank God!" Closing her eyes, Mrs Ainslie sagged with relief. "He didn't break his promise."

Reid and Boydeau exchanged glances in the little silence that followed, and waited.

"I'm sorry, that was a bizarre thing to say." Gathering herself a little, she sat up and hunted for a handkerchief. Finding it, she blew her nose, dabbed her eyes and looked at Reid almost fiercely. "But he's tried so hard to stay clean. When he disappeared, I knew he was dead. I've been waiting for a knock at the door, dreading he'd turn up in some horrible, squalid flat with a needle in his arm. Whatever happened, at least he kept faith with himself."

Reid stood up and walked to the window, blinking furiously. Sheila stepped in diplomatically: "Mrs Ainslie, will you be all right to come across to the station with us? We need someone to identify the body, and we'd like to ask you some questions."


	9. Chapter 9

_**Time for a bit of proper angsty stuff over the next couple of chapters.**_

_**You can't have Terry without angst... but there's plot too.**_

_**

* * *

  
**_

**Chapter 9**

Reid wasn't present at the identification of Tom Ainslie's body; leaving Sheila to oversee proceedings he retreated to the interview room, pulled down the blind on the door and smoked a cigarette out of the window whilst he waited. When Sheila phoned to say they were on the way up he popped out and bought some tea from the machine, reflecting uneasily that tea-boy seemed to have been his main contribution to this part of the proceedings so far.

He let Sheila run the interview, too, watching and listening as Mrs Ainslie folded her hands around her cup and talked about her son's last movements – how he'd been so much happier in the weeks before his death, so proud of himself for kicking his habit. She had no reason to think that anyone would want him dead, or that he'd slipped back into his old ways.

"He'd changed his whole social circle," she explained, looking from one to the other of them, anxious that they should believe her. "He avoided his old mates, didn't go clubbing any more. He said he couldn't trust himself."

"Do you know if he had any reason to be up round Fairfax Road?" Sheila asked.

Mrs Ainslie shook her head. "It's all just big posh houses up there, isn't it?" She looked thoughtful and then shook her head again. "No, I really don't know why he was in that area at all."

"Not into running or cycling, anything like that?" Sheila asked.

"Tom? No!" Mrs Ainslie's sad eyes almost smiled. "Allergic to physical effort, that one. Too busy being louche and chatting with his online friends. That's how I knew he was dead," she added, bleakly. "He didn't stay out, not since he finished his treatment. He'd come home, have some tea and then shut himself away upstairs with his laptop – or sit down in the room with me, sometimes, and drive me mad sniggering away at some silly in-joke or other while I was trying to watch telly."

"Sorry, Mrs Ainslie – you said he'd "come home,"" Sheila interjected. "Did Tom have a job?"

"Not paid work, no." Mrs Ainslie screwed the tissue in her hand into a ball and fiddled with it. "He helped out at the local hospice shop two or three days a week – it was part of his therapy, building up his confidence in social situations. All the old ladies made a bit of a pet out of him." The nearly-smile flickered across her face again.

"And on Monday – did he do or say anything unusual?" pressed Sheila kindly.

Mrs Ainslie frowned a little. "I've been running it through my mind over and over, and there was one thing. He rang me after lunch to say that he might be a bit late, he'd got to run an errand after lunch. I thought he meant he was doing something for one of the old ladies at the shop, but I don't think any of them live up that way."

Reid had remained quietly at Boydeau's elbow, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded and his chin sunk on his chest as he observed the proceedings. Now he sat forward. "How did Tom get to work?"

"Bus," Mrs Ainslie said. "He can't – he couldn't - drive, and he was saving up to buy himself a motorbike. I did offer to get him one, but he wouldn't let me. He wanted to do everything for himself, to keep his independence, I suppose."

Reid looked thoughtful but said nothing more and made a "carry on" gesture to Boydeau.

Sheila pushed her glasses up onto her hair and smiled at Mrs Ainslie. "That's all we need to know for now," she said. "I've got someone ready to show you back down to the front desk and we'll inform you as soon as we have any news. Have you got someone who can come round or somewhere you can go for a while?"

"My friend Rachel's picking me up," Mrs Ainslie reached down for her handbag. "Thank you both. You've been very kind."

_Boydeau's been very kind,_ Reid corrected her inwardly as he stood up to hold the door open for her. She smiled up at him gratefully and he nodded politely, despising his own cowardice. Sheila came to stand by his elbow and they watched Mrs Ainslie walking straight-backed down the corridor in the company of a WPC.

"Tough lady," Boydeau said approvingly.

"She'll need to be," Reid replied. She glanced up at him enquiringly and he shrugged. "Come on – let's see if anyone else out there has found out anything useful yet."

"What was that about transport?" Boydeau asked as they headed in the direction of the office.

"Just a shot in the dark, really. There's no bus-routes up that way, so if he's got no bike then he took a taxi, he walked, or he got a lift. Someone might have seen him."

Boydeau stopped walking and looked at him. "Sarge," she said with a decisive air, "I'm going to play devil's advocate here. There's no direct link between Tom Ainslie and Paul Dunsmore. We've not actually been directed to investigate Ainslie's death; we're supposed to be following up on the stuff from the cash and carry. And Pyle's going to say you're letting your personal interest in the Ainslie case over-rule your judgement."

He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked back at her stubbornly. "Probably."

"Probably _what_?"

"All of it."

"Fine, fine." She threw her hands in the air and began walking again. "Just don't say I didn't warn you…"

********************************

With their interviews at the cash and carry now completed, Reid and Boydeau were faced with a paper trail; winnowing through the stack of documents they'd amassed so far, trawling for any useful nuggets of information.

Boydeau had a few lines of enquiry she wanted to chase and she retreated to her own desk in CID to do so. Dunsmore's second referee was still a mystery, as was his place of residence prior to Fairfax Road. On top of this, Jack Richardson, their overly-cheery interviewee, was niggling at her like a stone in her shoe and she was determined to find out more about him and try to pin down what exactly it was that bothered her so much. She was hoping, too, that she might have the information back on Empey's phone-calls from that morning so that she could begin to narrow down who he might have been talking to.

Reid accompanied her into the office to pick up some of the files which the trainees had selected as worthy of further perusal from the stacks of boxes confiscated from the Gold Star. Much of it appeared to be financial records, which had surprised nobody, but one, much smaller, pile was personnel information which Reid was intending to cross-reference with their notes from the interviews.

After the frenetic activity of the last two or three days the prospect of prolonged exposure to paperwork enchanted neither of them. Boydeau sat down in her chair and considered her scattered notes with a sigh, while Reid leaned against the edge of her desk and surveyed the heap of folders at his feet with a weary expression.

"What time is it?" he asked over his shoulder

"Half twelve," she replied, already shuffling through papers in an attempt to find the ones she wanted to start with and resisting the urge to prod him out of the way.

"Does one lunch equal two breakfasts?"

"_What?_"

Heaving himself away from the desk he bent down and scooped up an armload of folders which he held against his chest. "If I buy you egg and chips in about two hours, does that pay back the two breakfasts I owe you?"

"My word, you know how to treat a woman, DS Reid." Setting her glasses on her nose Sheila looked at him over the rims. "You're on. Now go away and stop using me as a displacement activity." She made a shooing movement with her handful of papers. He winked and strolled off with his cargo, leaving her shaking her head amusedly.

*********************************

Boydeau spent the next couple of hours with the phone clamped to her ear and a pen in her hand, alternately scribbling notes, tapping in numbers and doodling whilst on hold. Her resultant exasperation was both recompensed and increased by the information that Paul Dunsmore's second referee was an elderly lady in receipt of disability benefits who appeared to have no business interests whatsoever.

"What are you playing at, you slippery little twerp?" she muttered aloud, staring at the notepad as if it were about to answer her. "I'm starting to think you're not dead. You're far too dodgy for anything as neat and tidy as that!"

Her other queries were proving equally exasperating and even less fruitful. Jack Richardson appeared to be as squeaky-clean as his interview had suggested despite the fact that her every instinct was telling her otherwise, and the calls Empey had made around the time of their visit to the office had either been of a legitimate business nature or were internal extension calls. No usefully incriminating mobile phone details in sight.

A visit back to the Gold Star might be the way to go, she decided. It was quite likely that several members of staff were in on whatever scam Dunsmore and Empey were running, and if they could pin down who it was then maybe one of them might be a little more forthcoming in a police interview room than on their own turf. She could, of course, just ring the acidic Ms Ellis and ask for a copy of their list of extensions and the personnel likely to use each one, but Sheila didn't trust Ellis as far as she could throw her. After lunch she'd look into whether she could take an hour and pop over in person.

The thought of lunch prompted her to glance at her watch – almost half two. She was debating whether she had time to make another quick call when a door slammed on the corridor and DI Pyle's booming voice echoed clearly through the office:

"DS Reid – what a pleasant surprise. So nice to know you're still working here. I'll have that update on your case now, if you'd be so good; you're only about forty-eight hours behind."

Boydeau's desk was set so that she had her back to the door and faced into the office, and she could clearly see the ears pricking up all round the room. A nasty feeling twisted her stomach. _Please, Sarge, don't rise to it. Just let him have his pop and then let's get those chips…_

Reid spoke calmly: "I've got my case-file on my desk, sir. It's fully up to date."

"It's no bloody good to me on your desk, is it?" Pyle demanded, and Sheila's heart sank. _He's really pissed off… _"Just in case your extended absence has completely erased proper protocol from your mind, it is customary to keep your DI informed of your movements, rather than just writing everything down and trusting to thought transference."

"Yes, sir. I can get the file for you now if you want it."

"How terribly splendid of you." Sarcasm dripped from Pyle's words. "What was your alternative course of action, may I ask? Expecting to have me pattering around after you like bloody Boydeau?"

_You cheeky sod!!! _Every eye in the office swivelled covertly in Sheila's direction. Seething inwardly she kept her eyes fixed on the papers scattered on her desk, thinking of new and varied uses for her Oscar statuette.

"Sir?" A good deal less calm now.

"Don't you "sir" me!" exploded Pyle. "You spend two days arseing around without a word of where you are or what you're doing…"

"You gave us until Wednesday to look into the Paul Dunsmore case, sir, and then we discovered the body…"

"Ah, yes – your "body in the woods". Which you then proceeded to investigate further without any reference to me. Care to explain that?"

There was a short pause before Reid spoke again; when he did so it was slowly, choosing his words with care. "DS Boydeau spoke to DCI Brocklehurst when we returned to the station, sir, and he gave us permission to continue the investigation. Boydeau and I both felt that the two cases could be connected and we've been pursuing leads on them both. I did leave you a message with DS Coleman at the desk."

"You've got a nerve, you have." Pyle's voice was venomous. "Go on, enlighten me. Explain how you connect a random act of vandalism, some dodgy book-keeping at a cash and carry and a missing person with your bloody dead junkie."

"Medical evidence suggests that the boy died at around the same time that Paul Dunsmore went missing." Reid's voice remained level and Sheila crossed her fingers under the desk. "The body was in the woods behind Dunsmore's house, less than ten minutes walk away." A brief pause. "And he wasn't a junkie, sir."

"I beg your pardon?"

_Don't!_ Boydeau begged her boss silently. _Don't get into this! _Picking up her phone she tapped in the number for the front desk and gave an inward sigh of relief as Coleman answered. "Gryff?" she hissed. "It's Sheila. We might have a bit of a situation up here…"

Outside the door, the bit of a situation was continuing to deteriorate.

"I said: "He wasn't a junkie." Sir." Reid's tone was a hairsbreadth away from outright contempt.

"What the hell does that have to do with anything?"

"We have reason to believe his death was suspicious, sir. His mother reports his behaviour as completely normal when he left the house that day. There was no medical evidence of drugs in his system and no paraphernalia at the scene. He didn't overdose."

Wrongfooted, Pyle snorted. "You'd know more about that than I would."

A blanket of total silence dropped across the CID office, save for the metaphorical thuds of jaws on desks.

_Oh dear God!_ Sheila thought. Getting slowly to her feet she walked across to the doorway. Reid and Pyle stood one each side of the opening, bristling at each other like two big cats. Neither of them spared her so much as a glance.

Into the quiet, Reid's next words fell like droplets on a still pond. "Beg your pardon, sir?"

Pyle's white teeth showed in a mirthless, goading grin. "I understand you've got a fair bit of personal experience in that area. Always good to research around a subject, but there is such a thing as over-application…"

The next few seconds were a blur. Boydeau, anticipating what was about to happen, faked a sudden stumble, grabbed Pyle's jacket and shoulder-charged the DI heavily away from the doorway - a split second before Reid lunged to hit him. Pyle, staggering backwards with Sheila still clinging to his lapels, crashed into the wall at the other side of the corridor with a resounding clatter, and Coleman, miraculously appearing at just the right moment, lunged through the fire-doors to grab Reid round the waist from behind and rugby-tackle him to the ground.

From along the corridor came the sound of Brocklehurst's door slamming open, and the DCI emerged a moment later to be greeted by the sight of Pyle towering wrathfully over a profusely-apologising Boydeau whilst Coleman dragged Reid upright and interposed himself firmly between Pyle and his furious DS.

"What the bloody hell is going on out here?" BB's glasses flashed interrogatively as he glared from one to the other.

"My fault, sir," Coleman said instantly, his arm still across Reid's chest. "Wasn't looking where I was going and I opened the door too quick. Knocked DS Reid clean over, and sent poor DC Boydeau flying straight into DI Pyle. Caused chaos, I have. Very sorry, sir."

Brocklehurst stared around at the little group again. "That's the full story, is it?" Green eyes moved from face to face and no-one spoke. "Well, an accident is an accident. Try not to let it happen again, Sergeant Coleman." The eyes rested for a long moment on Pyle, and then flicked across to Reid. "Not good to have the station disrupted, is it? DI Pyle, if I might speak to you in my office for a moment. And DS Reid – please bring your report to me after lunch."

With a glare at Reid that had some left over for Coleman and Boydeau, Pyle slouched up the corridor.

Coleman looked at Sheila and jerked his head in the direction of the main door. Understanding, she ducked past the desk-sergeant and grabbed Reid firmly by the wrist. "Sod egg and chips, Sarge," she said. "You're taking me out for a pub lunch."

Linking her arm through his she steered him in the direction of the car-park and he followed, unresisting.


	10. Chapter 10

_**Just a short angsty one following on from the end of Chapter 9 (as it would, I suppose...)**_

_**Next one gets the plot cracking along again!**_

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**Chapter 10**

The staff car-park on a sunny afternoon was not an environment guaranteed to raise the spirits or soothe the nerves; it was hot enough to fry the promised eggs on the tarmac and smelt strongly of the bins. As they reached Sheila's car, Reid wrenched his arm from her grasp and began to stalk off in the direction of his Mondeo, rummaging in his pocket for his Rothmans as he went.

"Oh no you bloody don't!" She jumped in front of him, stopping him in his tracks. "You're not going walkabout this time. You've got to be back here to give Brocklehurst your report, cos if you don't he's going to let Pyle assign the whole lot to somebody else, and you'll end up filing papers for the next six months. We've put too much work into this case for that to happen."

He made as if to step round her and she blocked his path again. "No way, Sarge," she said firmly. "No career suicide today." He stared at her sullenly and her own bad humour began to rise. "Look, I'm not standing here making a prat of myself in the car-park for the entertainment of the office grapevine. And you're not getting behind the wheel in that state. I'm driving. We're going to go to a pub where no-one knows who we are, so that you can talk while I listen, or you can sit and say nothing while I eat my lunch." Reaching into her pocket she pulled out her key-fob and unlocked the doors. "Get in the bloody car."

They glowered at each other. Reid's chest was heaving and she could see the angry pulse jumping at his throat where his tie had been pulled askew in the struggle. She knew that if he decided he was leaving there was essentially damn all she could do about it, but she was counting on him being enough of a gentleman that even in this mood he wouldn't actually try to barge her out of the way. He still didn't shift, and she risked leaning round him to pull the passenger door open. In a sudden flurry of movement he slung himself into the seat and slammed the door shut, leaving her to stamp bad-temperedly round to the driver's side.

As she yanked her door open she heard the click of a lighter being sparked and her irritation levels cranked up another few notches. "Wind the window down, for God's sake!" she snapped and Reid did so, looking as though he'd rather have put his fist through it. A simmering silence prevailed.

"Go on, then," he said suddenly after several minutes. "Get it off your chest."

"_What???_" Caught unawares negotiating a tricky junction, Boydeau spoke more sharply than she'd intended and earned herself a sulky blue glare. "What are you talking about?"

"The whole "I-told-you-so" business. Let's get it over and done with."

"Oh, for God's sake!" she barked, seriously considering the idea of stopping and heaving him out into the passing traffic. "Is that really what you think I'm going to say? You absolute…" words failed her for a moment as she groped for the terms in which to fully express her exasperation and eventually settled on: "You total, utter… _bloke_!"

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" he demanded.

"Everything's a bloody competition with you lot, isn't it? We've just managed a major cock-up – what shall we do? We could talk about how we go about damage limitation and setting things right, or – no! I've got a better idea! Let's sit here and work out which of us is the most to blame so that we know who's the biggest martyr." Turning into the pub car-park she clamped the brakes on with venomous force and twisted round to face him. "If you think I brought us out here to play that game, think again pal…" she broke off abruptly. "Are you laughing at me?"

"No," he lied, concealing his amusement with the back of his hand.

"Yes you are, you rotten bastard." But her annoyance was draining away and she returned the smile. "Oh, come on, for crying out loud. Let's get something to eat."

They climbed out of the Vectra and she locked the doors. Reid leaned against the bonnet and rubbed his hands across his face. His anger had died down as suddenly as it had flared up and he looked weary and shaken. Boydeau walked round the car to put a hand on his shoulder and he looked up. "Sorry," he said.

"For what?"

He shrugged. "You're not supposed to have to do this any more."

"What – have rows with you in the car on the way to the pub?"

"Spend half your working life sorting my head out."

"Well…" she stepped back and regarded him thoughtfully. "It's a hell of a lot easier than it used to be." He made a sceptical sound. "No, seriously, Sarge. Let's be frank here. This time last year you'd have been two-thirds pissed by now and I'd have been cleaning puke off your jacket and feeding you Polos before I sent you in to see the Chief with my fingers crossed."

He winced a little. "That only happened once, didn't it?"

"Yup. Just before you were sent away on the temporary placement to Denton."

"Yeah, that would be it." Wearily, he heaved himself upright. "Okay. I owe you a very belated lunch."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Reid braced himself on the wash-hand basin and raised his head to look into the grimy mirror. _Come on, son, it's only BB!_ went the pep talk in his head. _What's the worst thing that can happen? Oh yeah, I'll get suspended for attempting to assault a senior officer...Shut up, Terry, BB doesn't know about that...No, not yet..._

He was suddenly reminded of a Tom and Jerry cartoon where the cat is harangued by two mice, dressed as an angel and a pantomime devil, one on each shoulder. He savagely splashed his face with water and towelled it dry. That was all he needed, a comedy image in his head so that he looked like a smirking idiot when he met his governor in - he wrenched his watch into view – 35 seconds. Dammit again. He did up his top shirt button, tightened his tie, and walked out of the men's' room and round to the senior officers' corridor. For once, Brocklehurst's door was open, and he motioned to Reid to come in and shut the door.

"Progress, Reid?" Brocklehurst removed his glasses and laid them down on the blotter before him, then replaced the top on his fountain pen and proceeded to tinker with it for the entire interview.

Reid cleared his throat and began. "Can I just say, sir..."

The DCI abruptly held up a hand. "Now don't flannel me. I want the unvarnished truth. Does this case have legs? Is a successful prosecution likely? What is the quality of the evidence so far?"

"Well, I..."

"Because if there isn't enough to build a decent, solid case I don't want any more time wasted on it. Inspector Pyle has hinted to me that you might be more usefully employed on another case he has on the back burner" - Brocklehurst consulted some notes in front of him – "a very serious case, involving bogus callers on the Petershill estate."

Reid's heart bounced to his boots and back up into his throat. He dreaded to think what else Haemorrhoids had mentioned to the DCI, but he'd be damned before he would be relegated to taking statements from little old ladies who really just wanted company, and to ply him with tea and suspicious-looking cakes. He drew himself up sharply in his seat.

"Sir, I have every confidence that we can bring this case to a successful conclusion. The evidence at this point is building up rapidly, and the team are making good progress with the documentation seized from the cash and carry. DS Boydeau and myself have interviewed all the staff there, and we..."

The "stop" hand went up again. "That's all I needed to know, Reid. As I said to you at our previous meeting, I feel certain that you, as an experienced and intuitive officer, can sort out the sheep from the goats on this one."

Now Reid really needed all his strength to keep his face straight. The mental picture of DI Pyle with horns and a beard, bleating, was making its presence felt all too keenly. The thought flashed through his mind_, I wonder what on earth they're putting in the canteen grub? Magic mushrooms?_

**********

Sheila was waiting anxiously at her desk, keeping an ear out for sounds of any further aggravation in the hall. When none came, but Reid appeared and went straight to his office, she put her head in her hands and exhaled deeply. After giving it a few minutes, so as not to appear too mother-hennish, she stuck her head round his door. "How'd it go?"

"A lot better than I expected...although d'you know what that bastard Pyle's gone and done? Only recommended that I be reassigned to work the Petershill distraction blags. Tosser." He threw down his pen in disgust and swivelled his chair round to look out of the window.

Alarmed, Sheila asked, "He hasn't...?!"

Reid swung back to face her. "No, I managed to persuade the DCI to let us keep on with the Dunsmore investigation – although to be honest he did most of the talking. I think he wants to show Pyle that he can reform me."

Boydeau gave a wry smile. "Oh dear...," she said, and turned to leave.

"Where d'you think you're off to?" Reid asked as he produced a cigarette, saw Sheila's gaze rest on it, and returned it to its packet before she could comment.

"I was just going to check on the Gold Star paperwork; I was talking to Danielle while you were, er, in conference, and she said they're almost finished. I can get you the list they've made of potentially relevant stuff, if you like."

Reid nodded thoughtfully. Something was tickling the back of his consciousness, but for the life of him he couldn't get at it. He went back over what Sheila had just said, trying to find the trigger point...Danielle...list...Gold Star...he snapped his fingers and thumped the desk.

"That was it! I wanted to ask you if there had been anything dodgy-looking in their accounts, specifically the payroll."

"I'll make copies of their findings and we can go through it. Hold on a tick." She ducked out and returned about five minutes later, bearing a sheaf of papers tucked under her arm. She also carried two cups of tea, one of which Reid knocked back with surprising ferocity.

Sheila raised her eyebrows. "Thirsty, sarge?" she enquired unnecessarily.

Reid ignored her and ran his practiced eye down the list of documents that the junior team of detectives had picked out as being worthy of further attention.

Sheila, meanwhile, leafed through the sheets she had until she found what she sought. Almost immediately, she said urgently, "Sarge!"

"Got something?"

"Page 3 of the notes. Check out the 'Previous Employees on the PNC' bit."

He scanned the sheet in front of him and finally a slow grin creased his face. "Gotcha! I knew that grubby little whinger was more involved in this business than he let on." He picked up the phone and rang the custody suite.

"Herbert? Have you still got Gordon McVey a.k.a. Colin Whyte residing with you? Good! I'll want a word with him later on, so don't let anyone try anything like bailing him, OK? They have to go through me first...thanks." He hung up and looked across at Boydeau, who was looking at him somewhat quizzically.

"'Herbert'?" she repeated sceptically.

Reid looked blankly back at her, then light dawned. "Oh...Powling," he replied, and returned to the enjoyable task of seeing what other nefarious individuals showed up on Empey's payroll.

"He's a Herbert?! First I knew of it." She obviously still wasn't convinced, but carried on reading.

"Aha! Another likely suspect...," exclaimed Reid. He realised he was getting no reaction from Boydeau, glanced up at her, and did a double-take when he saw her sitting with her hand across her mouth, as if she was about to cry.

"What?" he asked, not daring to move.

Sheila removed her hand and dabbed her index finger on the page she was holding. "Tom," was all she managed to say before the hand went back up again.

"Tom? Tom who?" Reid read down the page, and was horrified to read Tom Ainslie's name on the list of former Gold Star workers.

"Ye gods." They were silent for several minutes. There was, after all, a definite link between Dunsmore and whatever he was up to, and the death of Ainslie in the quarry.

"That's it." Reid's chair span violently as he pushed it away and grabbed his jacket from the coat stand beside him. "If anybody wants me, I'll be in Interview 6 beating the crap out of that lying piece of..."

"Sarge, McVey – or Whyte, or whatever he wants to call himself – may not know anything about Tom Ainslie. Don't show him your hand...not yet."

Reid paused in the doorway, checking for his lighter. "Don't worry, Sheila, I didn't come down in the last shower. But I won't be giving him an easy ride. He knows something about Ainslie's death, I'm sure of that now. We just need to find out who's running this whole show, and what it's all about. You coming with me?"

"Try and stop me," came the determined reply, and Reid thought, not for the first time, that he would rather face Brocklehurst and Pyle any day than Sheila with the bit between her teeth.

**********

Less than an hour later, with steam coming out of his ears, Reid barged out through the station front doors, lighting a cigarette. Coleman raised an eyebrow at the sudden eruption, but said nothing and continued with his paperwork. A few minutes later, Sheila approached his desk and he nodded towards the exit with an "I'd leave him for a bit, if I were you" look on his face.

"Can't, sarge. Haemorrhoids is on the warpath because he wanted our suspect bailed a couple of hours ago, and DS Reid's just gone through the little scumbag like a dose of salts." She waved her shorthand notebook at Coleman. "Tell you what, though, it didn't half work." She grinned cheerfully and as a parting shot, called, "If anyone asks, you haven't seen us."

The desk sergeant rolled his eyes and retorted, "You're as bad as he is!" before retreating into what Reid liked to refer to as "the scullery".

Outside, Sheila scanned the car park, but to no avail. As she braced herself for another visit to the bins, her attention was caught by angry, raised voices at the very edge of the station precincts. Craning to see better, but all the time dreading another spot of refereeing, she suddenly realised that Reid had joined her on the steps and was similarly straining to see what was going on.

"Sarge! I thought..."

"You thought it was me, didn't you? Sorry to disappoint," he said brusquely, and legged it down the stairs, weaving between the parked cars to separate the two combatants.

"Bastard! Lying bastard! So help me, I'll bloody do you in!" Reid grabbed the upraised hand and its attendant bag, and pulled Jill Ainslie off the cowering form of Frank Empey. Sheila wasn't far behind, and she took over from Reid, trying to comfort the distraught woman while Reid drew Empey away from the mêlée.

"She's a lunatic! Barking mad! Did you see that?" Empey, who was only slightly injured, dabbed at a tiny cut underneath his eye. "You're my witnesses, the pair of you! She attacked me without proclamation..." Reid and Boydeau managed to suppress their amusement at the malapropism. Empey turned his wrath on Mrs. Ainslie. "I'll sue you for every penny..."

"Well that bloody won't be much, will it, you cheap bastard? You saw to that, paying my Tom peanuts and getting him to run your filthy errands for you for nothing!"

"Now, that's enough, Mrs. Ainslie," remonstrated Sheila gently. "Were you coming to have a chat with us?" The woman nodded, unable to speak further, and Boydeau placed a consoling arm around her shoulders. "Right, come along in and we'll find somewhere quiet where you can tell me what this is all about, OK?" The grieving mother meekly allowed herself to be led off to the safety of the police station, and Reid turned back to Empey, who stood glowering, almost snarling, at his departing nemesis.

"Right, what about you? Were you here on official business, or was that just a happy coincidence?"

"I'm here for the paperwork you lot had off me nearly a week ago," spat back the manager contemptuously. "I need it if I'm to do my job properly. My accountant says..."

Reid's interest was piqued at once by this mention of someone who actually took responsibility for the books at Gold Star. He let Empey witter on for a bit about his civil liberties, then decided that he could do worse than follow Sheila's example, and invited the man into the station on the pretext that he would see what he could do about locating his accounts. Then, when the idiot thought he was getting what he wanted, Reid would finagle the name of the book-keeper out of him.

He entered the reception area to a surprised look from Coleman, and told Empey to take a seat while he sorted things out. Nicking under the counter, he took Gryff aside: "Keep an eye on him till I go upstairs and look out his accounts. Sheila's got her hands full at the moment, but whatever you do, don't let the woman she's with see this one" - he indicated their visitor, who was by now sitting haughtily with his arms folded – "unless you want World War Three on your hands."

"Got it," replied Coleman. He lifted his phone. "I'll ring Sheila and warn her to take her lady out the back door."

"Good, thanks. Now," Reid returned to the public side of the counter and addressed the waiting Empey, "if you'll just bear with me, I shall go up to the CID office and retrieve your books."

"I'll be timing you. I've got better things to do with my day than hang about here waiting for pen-pushing coppers," came the stinging response. As Reid ground his teeth and made for the stairs, Empey's whining voice echoed in his wake, "I shall be making an official complaint if I lose any more business hours over this, you know!"

"Would you like a cup of tea while you're waiting, sir?" intervened Coleman. "I make a particularly nice brew, or so one of the inspectors tells me..."


	12. Chapter 12

**C****hapter 12**

The first thing Reid saw as he reached the first floor offices was Sheila, leaning against the corridor wall outside the ladies'. He decided a longer wait would do Mr. Empey the world of good.

"Sheila. How's Mrs. Ainslie?"

"Oh, OK, sarge. She's just freshening up before I get McGowan to take her home." Seeing Reid was taken aback at this information, she clarified, "She basically told me everything she wanted to say before we even got into an interview room. Turns out she found a notebook in Tom's room very similar to the one in Dunsmore's house, and thought we should have it."

"Sound judge," replied Reid, as Sheila drew a slim black notebook from her jacket pocket. It was, indeed, almost identical to the book Reid had unearthed at the house in Fairfax Road. She flicked to its final page and stood beside him so they could both read it.

"Looks like a list of internal phone numbers to me," surmised her sergeant.

"And I'm willing to bet a month's beer money – sorry, sarge – that they're the extension numbers at Gold Star. I haven't checked it yet, but I still want to see if there's any internal phone record showing who called who within the warehouse. I dare say Ms Ellis can help us with that. I do remember thinking that they had quite a sophisticated-looking telecom system, for such a down-at-heel operation."

Reid thought for a moment and checked what time it was. "You sort things with McGowan and see Mrs. Ainslie down to the yard, and I'll meet you there in five minutes. If we get cracking, we can be down at the cash and carry before Empey returns, and I might even have the name of his accountant if I play my cards right. I'll just give Gryff a bell first."

**********

"Well, about time!" Empey almost exploded with outraged impatience, as Reid handed him a pile of ledgers.

"I apologise for the delay, Mr. Empey, but we have evidence procedures that need to be followed. If you'll bear with me for just a minute or two longer, I'll get Sergeant Coleman here to issue you with a receipt for them, all right?"

Still grumbling like a volcano, Empey dragged himself over to the desk while Gryff laboriously wrote out an extra-well detailed receipt, pushed the book towards Empey for a signature, and then spent a couple of minutes trying to find him a pen that worked – completely ignoring the fact that the one he had just used himself was lying underneath the counter.

Reid seized his opportunity. "You'll be able to get them to your accountant now, Mr. Empey," he said, laying a hand on the counter beside the books to underline his point.

The unwary Empey answered, "Yes, he wants to make an early start on them tomorrow, so I thought it best to pick them up today."

"Of course, of course," said Reid, and then, as Empey finally got to sign the receipt, "See that Mr. Empey gets a taxi, Sergeant, will you?"

Gryff nodded and gave a syrupy smile, and Reid, without another word, disappeared through the doors and almost sprinted down the corridor to the rear exit. Sheila had the Vectra running and ready to go, and in less than ten minutes they were parked at the warehouse.

"Empey's probably still trying to get away from Gryff," explained Reid. "He's got the best stock of time-wasting tactics I've ever seen."

"Did you find out who his accountant was?" enquired Boydeau, as she automatically took Reid's Rothmans from his hand, threw them into the back seat, and locked the car. He stood there glaring at her for a second, then gave up.

"Gryff was going to order a cab to take him there, so with a bit of luck..." he broke off as his mobile rang. "Gryff?...Nice one, that's great." Turning to Sheila as they approached the cash and carry entrance, he said, "Ashbourne's, on Prince Albert Road." Speaking into the phone again, he went on, "You still there, Gryff? Good. Get hold of Gent and Jordan, have them go over to Ashbourne's and make sure we've not been thrown a red herring...cheers."

"You think Empey might have sussed it?" asked Sheila quietly, seeing Ms Ellis' head was moving in their direction like Jodrell Bank.

"No point in chancing it," replied Reid, then to the frosty receptionist, "Good afternoon, Ms Ellis..."

She stared pointedly at the clock on the wall. It showed half-past four.

"What, do you close early today or something?" asked Boydeau, bluntly, intentionally putting Ellis on the back foot.

"No, of course not, we keep trade hours!" Ms Ellis bristled defensively. "It's just that ... Mr. Empey isn't here right now."

"Ah, that's because he's been at the police station, collecting the account books." Reid smiled warmly and leaned on the high reception desk as if he were having a chat with an old friend. "Quite a high-tech phone system you've got there." He nodded at the switchboard and the receptionist brightened up noticeably at this unlikely man taking an interest in her work.

"State of the art," she replied with pride. "It's all computerised..." she tapped a few keys on her PC and swung the screen round so the detectives could see it. "If I click on this, it shows me all the calls presently in the system. Click on _this_, and I can see how long a particular call has lasted. And it has excellent voicemail features too."

"Very impressive!" enthused Reid. "And does it store all this information as well?"

"Of course! Here, for example, is a list of all the calls I made yesterday, to customers with outstanding accounts."

By now, Reid had come round behind the reception desk and was nodding appreciatively at Ms Ellis' running commentary. "I bet, though, you can't get it to tell you...oh, I don't know...say, who was phoning who in the warehouse two days ago!"

Ellis snorted in derision. "Just you watch this." She punched some keys, clicked the mouse, and up came a list of calls from the Tuesday.

"Printable too?" asked Reid, and almost at once the list was churning out of the printer at Ms Ellis' side. She handed it to him almost triumphantly.

"That must make your work a lot easier," he said with feeling.

"I don't know what I did without it. The best thing Mr. Empey ever did was to have this system installed."

Reid had surreptitiously handed the list to Boydeau, who turned her back on him and strolled over to the notice board. She pretended to read it as she scanned the call log and compared the numbers on it with the extension numbers in Tom Ainslie's book. She saw at once that Empey's extension was listed on quite a few occasions – not in itself remarkable - but also that on their second visit to Empey, he had terminated an internal call. She consulted the list once more. It had been to Jack Richardson. Now _that_ was interesting.

Reid was still making telephone small talk with Ms Ellis, who was now wreathed in smiles, and wished them a pleasant evening as they took their farewells.

"I wonder how long it'll take her to realise we didn't actually do anything but talk to _her_?" smiled Boydeau, as they got back into the car.

"Just drive," ordered Reid, "and bloody well give me those Rothmans back."

**********

"So, first thing in the morning, we'll go back and have a talk with Jack Richardson," suggested Sheila, as Reid puffed a cloud of smoke high into the air.

They had taken the scenic route back to the nick, at Reid's insistence, and had stopped halfway so he could have a fag without polluting the car. Boydeau had parked up on a long stretch of road overlooking Elmheath Common, which stretched from the foot of the quarry to the distant glimmering expanse of Lyne Water. The warm evening made it a pleasant place to stop and take stock, and they leaned companionably together on the side of the car, taking in the view.

"I'd like to go over what we have on him so far, sarge, back at the office. I know we've got him listed on the payroll and personnel records, but I don't think we ever found so much as a parking ticket against him on the PNC."

Reid considered his cigarette as he finished it. "Yeeesss," he said, looking down at the ground, but Boydeau could tell his mind was now goodness knows where, doing goodness knows what.

"And then I thought that we could sneak into the DCI's office late tonight, and decorate it with toilet paper and shaving foam. How does that sound?"

"Mmmm? Oh, yes, no problem." There was a long pause, during which neither of them spoke, and then Reid said sullenly, "I suppose you think you're bloody clever."

Sheila grinned and merely replied, "I'll get on with the paperwork, sarge."

He pointed his cigarette packet at her. "You do that, _constable_. And if you find so much as a full stop that doesn't look right, you let me know."

They drove back to Northcote in silence, and Sheila was surprised when Reid got straight out of her car, grunted, " 'Night!" and made for his own vehicle, all while lighting up again.

"Sarge!" she called, in a mock-plaintive tone, "I didn't mean it about BB's office!"

Reid waved at her without turning round, got in the car, slammed it into gear, and revved off out of the parking yard. Sheila stayed where she was, trying hard to figure out what was going on in that man's head. She appreciated full well the problems he'd had to work through, and it was becoming more and more apparent that he still had a long way to go with them. It didn't, however, affect her confidence in him as a police officer. Even his severe drug habit hadn't done that, before he'd gone to Denton. As it was, she trusted him with her life, or, for that matter, the life of anyone he was called on to work with.

But at times like this, she wished he was more grounded, so that she could bounce ideas off him for longer, as she'd wanted to earlier; things worked so much better when he was in tune. She sighed, and got out of the car only to find, to her horror, that DI Pyle himself was advancing down the stairs into the empty yard. It was too late to dive back into her car; she had no alternative but to carry on, and her heart was in her mouth as they passed each other. They exchanged cursory nods and she muttered a polite (if monotone), "'Night, guv." She was almost inside the back door of the station when "Boydeau!" rang out through the air.

Leaning back around the porch, she replied, "Yes, guv?"

"Where's Reid? I wanted a word with him."

Mentally crossing her fingers that Pyle hadn't already looked in CID, she answered, "I think he's upstairs, sir. I've just got back myself." She fervently hoped that Pyle had no idea what Reid's car looked like.

The surly inspector harrumphed, shook his head, and said, "Never mind. It'll wait till tomorrow. But you tell him I want to see him!" He stabbed the air with his finger for emphasis.

"Will do, guv'nor. Goodnight." Before anything further could transpire, Sheila put herself on the right side of the station doors and made for her office, blowing her cheeks out with relief. Gryff was approaching her from the opposite direction.

"Where's DS Reid?" he asked, unusually grim-faced.

"What am I, chopped liver?"

"No, seriously, Sheila, there's been a 999 shout to the Gold Star Cash and Carry not five minutes since. The place is on fire like enough to burn down."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

By the time Boydeau reached the cash and carry, the place was swarming with fire engines and officers, police cars and uniforms. She had to park about half a mile away and walk to where the police cordon was in place. The constable on duty knew her, though, and let her duck under the tape.

The warehouse was completely enveloped in orange flame, and great clouds of smoke rose high into the evening sky. Several jets of water were trained on it at various points, sending steam billowing out of the blaze, although it seemed rather pointless to Sheila; there wasn't much left to save. She supposed they were just trying to prevent it from spreading to any of the neighbouring industrial units.

She scanned the throng for a familiar face, and suddenly spotted Ms Ellis sitting on the back step of an ambulance, a paramedic administering oxygen to her. She was wrapped in a blanket and her face was a mess of smoke, tears, and smudged make-up.

Sheila approached, showed her warrant card, and asked the ambulance technician if it was okay to speak to Ms Ellis. He nodded, and she sat down on the step beside the receptionist. "That must have been terrifying," she said, putting an arm round the other woman's shoulders. Ellis nodded, inhaling deeply through the oxygen mask and coughing a little. Another paramedic appeared with some water, removed the mask, and helped her drink.

Waiting to make sure she was able to talk, Boydeau asked, "Do you know what happened?"

Ellis shook her head while taking another draught of oxygen. "Mr. Empey..." a spasm of coughing took away the rest of what she was trying to say.

"Is he still in the building?" asked Sheila, alarmed.

"Everybody's accounted for," volunteered the female paramedic who'd brought the water. "Eight people in total, wasn't it?" She looked at her colleague, who nodded in confirmation and continued to monitor their patient's blood pressure.

"Who's got the list?" Sheila stood up, deciding she probably wasn't going to get much more out of Ms Ellis just now. The technician pointed towards a cluster of firefighters, one of whom was holding a clipboard and wearing an orange high-visibility jacket.

"Javeed!" Sheila called as she made her way through the crowd. The officer whirled round, saw her, and raised his hand in greeting.

"No casualties, I hear?" she said, reaching his side.

"Eight walking wounded, all smoke inhalation. They got out in time, but there are question marks over the operation of the sprinkler system and smoke detectors. Off the record," said Javeed, lowering his voice, "I think the batteries were probably dud. I see this kind of thing a bit too regularly for my liking. They can shell out thousands for computer software they don't need, but they can't stick a few triple A batteries in some little plastic boxes. Daft." He shook his head in disbelief.

"Can I see the list?" He proffered the clipboard, and she checked for familiar names. Neither Empey's nor Jack Richardson's were on it. "Were they all staff?"

"So far as I can tell, yes. The receptionist told us there had been no customers since after five. We checked the shop floor anyway, just to be sure – as much as we could, before the roof went."

"My sergeant and I were here at four-thirty, and spoke to her then. This is all a bit too coincidental for me. I'm not inferring that she started it," Sheila added hurriedly at Javeed's startled look, "just that the case we're looking into could well be related to the fire, if you think it's deliberate."

"Oh, no doubt about that whatsoever," he replied. "My lads said you could smell it as soon as you got near the back of the warehouse. Petrol." He turned away to speak into his radio, and as Sheila looked in the other direction, she could see Terry Reid scanning the scene, as she had done, to find someone he knew. She waved until he saw her, then turned and thanked Javeed for his help.

"No probs, Sheila, and we'll get the report to you soon as we can. Oi, Malcolm!" he bawled at one of his men, and made off towards the conflagration.

Reid came up to her, for once cigarette-less (ironically, she thought), and stated rather than asked, "Arson?"

Resisting the temptation to say something jokey in reply, Boydeau nodded, and related Javeed's suspicions. She pointed at Ms Ellis and said, "She couldn't tell me anything. Empey and Richardson weren't listed as having been on the premises. All eight staff who were working at the time got out safely, so presumably Empey went straight home after the accountant's..."

"...or came back here with some cans of unleaded, then made himself scarce," finished Reid.

"Without being seen?" asked Sheila, doubt in her voice.

"It's the way arsonists seem to like to operate," retorted Reid scathingly.

Sheila gave him a weary look, but let the sarcasm pass. He was back down to earth and firing on all cylinders, that was the main thing.

"OK, so he went in at the loading bay or something." Suddenly she recalled Reid's instructions for Gent and Jordan. "We never found out if Empey actually turned up to the accountant's, did we? Perhaps Tom and Clare decided to keep on his tail."

"We should be so lucky," Reid replied, and finally produced his cigarettes.

Sheila was on the point of asking him if he really thought that was wise, given the circumstances, when Javeed materialised from the scrimmage of firefighters and said, wearily, "DS Reid, I'd be obliged if you'd put those away. We've got enough to be doing without you providing a secondary fire for us to fight." He disappeared behind a fire engine, and Reid complied with a very bad grace, muttering something about a "free country".

Boydeau managed to keep the smile off her face long enough to suggest that they get a home address for Empey from Ms Ellis. No sooner had the words left her lips than she noticed that the ambulance in which the receptionist had been treated was now closed and moving slowly away. She raced across the road and managed to catch the attention of the driver.

"I just need a quick word with your patient," she said breathlessly, as the window slid down. The driver jerked his thumb towards the back of the vehicle, and Sheila went to the rear of the ambulance to open it, leaning in through the door.

"Ms Ellis, can you tell me where Mr. Empey lives, please?"

The woman gaped at her blankly, remaining mute. Sheila looked at the female paramedic, who was riding in the back. "Have you given her a sedative or something?" she asked.

"It'll be shock. Sometimes it takes a while for it to kick in. Julie, love," the technician addressed Ms Ellis, "where does Mr. Empey live? Do you know?" She smoothed her patient's hands reassuringly. "We just need to make sure he's all right."

"Wimbledon," came the confused response.

"Wimbledon?" echoed a frustrated Sheila. This was getting them nowhere fast. By now, Reid was at her shoulder. He climbed carefully into the ambulance and sat beside the dazed Ms Ellis.

"Remember me? We were talking about your telephone system this afternoon."

He smiled encouragingly down at her and a little recognition showed in Ellis' face. She put out her hand to touch Reid's leather jacket. "Mr. Empey!" she said, as if just realising something.

"That's right, Ms Ellis. Do you know where...."

"His office! He's in his office!" Ellis began shouting, and jumped to her feet, shedding the blanket and pulling the oxygen mask off.

"No, no, love, it's all right, sit down. He wasn't there, the firemen checked." Making a quick grab for the frantic woman, the paramedic shot Boydeau a furtive look and Sheila turned and ran back to find Javeed.

Reid took hold of the receptionist by the arm and between them he and the female paramedic managed to calm Ellis down. Once she was back on the stretcher he said softly, "It's OK, Julie, he'll be at home by now. He was going to the accountant's – do you remember that? Then he would have gone home. Where is his home?"

"Wimbledon," she repeated foggily, blinking up at Reid in confusion.

"Oh, I know what she means," called back the driver. "Wimbledon Close. It's down off the Uxbridge Road. I'll bet you ten to one that's where he lives. Some right posh houses there."

"I'll check that out, mate, thanks for the suggestion. Take care of her," Reid added to the paramedic. He jumped down from the ambulance, shut the doors, and banged twice on them to signal "Go" to the driver. The blues and twos came on and he turned round to find Boydeau was at his elbow.

"Anything?"

"They definitely searched all the offices, and they were all empty. I wonder why she was so certain Empey was in the building?" asked Boydeau.

"For what it's worth, I reckon she somehow knew he had sneaked back in – whether she saw him on a security camera, or because somebody told her, I don't know, and I don't suppose there will be a shred of CCTV footage left in the place to check – and just assumed that he would have gone to his office. _But_..." Reid raised a finger for emphasis, "...if he came back to start the fire, then vanished once he'd done the deed, she wouldn't necessarily have known he'd left again."

Sheila nodded, letting this all sink in. "She'd be convinced he was still in there."

Reid continued, "And we managed to get a probable address for Empey – Wimbledon Close. Can you check that out?"

"Right, sarge, and while I'm at it I'll ask Tom and Clare about his movements."

"See you back at the factory," called Reid, as he started walking to his car.

**********

Northcote nick was abuzz with activity as a result of the fire. Skilfully evading both the DCI and Pyle, Sheila returned to CID and, after she had tasked the "diggers", sought out Claire Jordan.

"Well, he went straight to Ashbourne's accountants in Prince Albert Road," Claire read from her notes. "He was there for eight minutes, then he left and took another taxi to the car park in Green Lane. He picked up a dark blue Touareg..." She broke off, catching Sheila's enquiring expression.

"Why did you decide to keep following him after he left the accountant's?"

"We both thought Empey looked well shifty," replied the younger woman. "Before he even got to Prince Albert Road, he kept checking over his shoulder. He never spotted us, but he might as well have had 'guilty' written on him in big flashing letters. So we figured he was worth staying with."

"Good call," replied Sheila gratefully. "Go on."

Clare returned to her notebook. "From Green Lane, he drove to the filling station on Alderman Road. This is the good bit: he got _two_ petrol cans out of the boot of the car, filled them up (and paid for them obviously), then tootled off down Jubilee Road. That was where we lost him."

"_What?_" asked Boydeau in stunned disbelief.

"I know, I know." Claire was blushing. "It was _so_ stupid. Believe it or not, there was an identical car – would you credit it, two Touaregs the same colour – and we were following the wrong one for about ten minutes before we realised what had happened. It turned right and it was only then that we could see the driver was a blonde woman. You should have heard Leo."

"I can imagine! That was a bit of bad luck, but you'd already gone the extra mile – or ten – so I don't think you need to beat yourself up too much over it," Boydeau replied. "And to actually be lucky enough to see him prepare what was probably used to set the fire at the Gold Star..."

"Yeah, we guessed there might be a connection there. Is he in the frame for that, then?" asked Claire.

"He's the warehouse manager, and as the fire was started with a petrol-based accelerant, I think that makes him the prime suspect." Sheila glanced across the office as a movement by the door caught her attention. "Ah, here comes DS Reid. D'you want to fill him in...?" Claire shook her head, eyes wide, a look of terror on her face, and Sheila grinned understandingly and stood up to intercept her boss.

"Sarge. Leo and Claire have come up with the goods. They spotted Empey buying two cans' worth of unleaded, less than an hour before the fire was reported."

"Excellent!" said Reid with satisfaction. "Good work, Claire," he added, nodding in her direction."Right, Sheila – Empey's address?"

"Danielle's on it, sarge, and we're also going to check with Swansea for his car ownership."

"OK, once we've got all that, sort out a search warrant. I somehow doubt that if he _is_ our man, he'll have stuck around at home to welcome us in. In fact, while you're at it, better alert Transport in case he tries to leave the country."

"Will do." Sheila turned round to go, and almost collided – genuinely, this time - with DI Pyle.

"Oh, sorry, guv!" She stepped back more than was strictly necessary as Pyle almost snarled at her, then turned his baleful glare on her colleague.

"DS Reid...I thought you'd gone home?"

"I had, sir, but I thought under the circumstances it'd be only fair if I pitched in to help out on the fire."

"Really. And what, if anything, do you hope to contribute?" sneered Pyle.

Sheila succeeded in only gasping inwardly at the sheer rudeness of the man, and restrained herself after a flickering glance from Reid warned her to stay out of it.

"Well, we're in the process of getting a search warrant for the home of the Gold Star's manager. We've been keeping tabs on him, and this afternoon Gent and Jordan observed him buying two cans of petrol, shortly before the fire started. And we'll be checking the airports and ferries, just in case."

Both Reid and Boydeau were hugely gratified at the utter astonishment on Pyle's face. "Ah...er...all right, then, carry on!" he managed to bark before virtually storming back to his office, thwarted.

Sheila high-fived Reid's outstretched palm, then punched the air. He sat down on Jordan's chair, looking relieved, and laughed. The vague tension between them earlier in the evening was forgotten.

Danielle entered. "Got Empey's address, sarge, it's number five Wimbledon Close. And he's the registered keeper of a dark blue Touareg, KC08 LRG."

"Now there's a surprise," remarked Reid, as he was handed the printout. "Thanks, Danielle." As the trainee hurried off again, Reid looked thoughtful. "You know, Sheila, this was a well-planned operation. The car was parked up with the two cans ready in the boot. Either he was going for a long drive into the back of beyond, or the fire was something he'd been thinking about for a while."

"And he had the neck to come up here to complain just before he did it, too," Boydeau replied. "Bloody nerve."

"Certainly seems to have that in spades," agreed Reid. He stared pointedly at Sheila. "Warrant?"

"Sorry, sarge! The DI putting in an appearance like that threw me. I'll do it now."

**********

It was dark by the time the warrant came through, but there had been a considerable, yet inconspicuous, police presence in and around Wimbledon Close all that evening. Empey was nowhere to be seen, and his house displayed no signs of life.

"About bloody time," sighed Reid, as one of the PCs brought the search warrant to the car. "Right," he spoke into his radio. "Places, everybody." He got out of the car and walked purposefully round into the close, joining Sheila as she left her vehicle. Nobody was under any illusions that they would find Empey inside, but Reid was pinning his hopes on some incriminating documents, or even some evidence that Empey was on his way to the Costa del Crime.

He hammered heavily on the front door. "Police, Mr. Empey! Please open the door!" He waited a token twenty seconds, then motioned for the enforcer to be brought in. Another twenty seconds and they were in the living room, the kitchen, up in the bedrooms and bathroom, out in the garden, and the place was lit up like Blackpool.

"DC Boydeau," said Reid after about ten minutes' searching, "Given the amount of paperwork here, I think we're going to require the assistance of some forensic accountants. Oh, and give SO15 a ring too."

This brought half the officers in the house down on top of Reid's location in the utility room, and he was forced to shout at them all to get out. Sheila stuck her head through the doorway, the expression on her face hovering between curiosity and alarm. He sat back on his heels so that she could see down into the square hole in front of him, and the two of them surveyed the crate of AK-100s nestling quietly under the trapdoor.


	14. Chapter 14

**_Hope we got you with that last paragraph of Ch 13_**!

**_If you're visiting this story to read regularly, please leave us a hello by clicking on "review this story". No essays needed - just a wave is always nice :-)_**

**_Meanwhile - Terry has to go and see the boss..._**

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**Chapter 14**

Reid felt a good deal more positive this time as he leaned over the sink in the men's toilets and peered at his reflection in the mirror. _Mind you, I look like crap, _he reflected_._ It was nine o'clock on Friday morning and he'd managed to snatch about four hours sleep with his head on his desk at some point during the night. On hearing that the DCI wanted to see him, he'd blagged an electric razor off Leo Gent and had a quick shave, but there wasn't much to be done about the crumpled clothes or the bags under his eyes. _For God's sake – it's BB, not bloody Jennifer Aniston_!

As he headed for Brocklehurst's door he passed Sheila coming in. He'd sent her home around eleven the previous night when it became apparent that nothing much was going to happen until the wee small hours.

"Morning, Sarge!" she greeted him jauntily, falling into step beside him. He shot her a jaded glance and she grimaced sympathetically. "You're looking a bit rough. Late night, was it?"

"Early morning, more like." He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to wake himself up a bit. "I've got to go in and see BB – can you find me a coffee for when I get out?"

"Your wish is my command, oh Master. One rocket-fuel coming up." With a wink, Sheila disappeared into the main CID office.

Reid continued up the corridor to where the DCI's door stood ajar and knocked, doing his best to look bright-eyed and efficient.

"Well, Reid, this is a turn-up for the books, eh?" Brocklehurst raised his eyebrows and looked almost jovially over his glasses.

"Not quite what we expected, sir, but it'll do."

"It certainly will! I've already had the Deputy Assistant Commissioner on the blower, so this'll be a real feather in our cap..._your_ cap, I should say," he corrected himself hurriedly.

"We've informed the fire investigation team that there may be weapons and/or ammunition in the debris at the cash and carry," added Reid.

"I wouldn't be surprised in the slightest. This Empey chap may prove to be a significant wheel in a much larger empire," replied BB, mixing his metaphors somewhat.

Reid nodded in agreement and, encouraged by Brocklehurst's bonhomie, decided to do a Boydeau. "And with your permission, sir, I'd like to conduct searches on the homes of every employee on the Gold Star books. I doubt Empey's the only one there who's involved in this."

The DCI pondered for a minute, then said, "I think that would be the next logical step in your investigation," picked up the phone, and spoke to his PA: "Tanya, get me one of the duty JPs, will you?" Replacing the receiver, he said to Reid, "Get me the list of employees in here now, and we'll sort the warrants out before it gets any later."

**********

"Sarge, I need a word," said Sheila, putting a cup of coffee into Reid's hand as he returned to the main CID room.

"Talk to me while I get this sorted," he instructed as he strode over to Danielle Osborne's desk. "Can you print me out a list of every member of staff at Gold Star Cash and Carry, please?" he asked the officer. She nodded and set about her task as Sheila spoke to Reid.

"First thing – I've just had a call from Gryff to let us know that Pyle gave instructions for McVey to be bailed first thing this morning. It was before Gryff came on shift so he couldn't let us know."

Reid rolled his eyes. "Don't tell me – the little slimebag's vanished."

"Thin air job. Sorry. But the good news is it's conditional - he's got to report back here once a week if he wants to stay out, so we should be able to get hold of him if we need him."

"Could be worse. At least he sang us a nice song about Empey and Richardson before he flew away. What's number two?"

"Remember DC Craig was checking the council records for Fairfax Road? He confirmed what the neighbours had said about Dunsmore only moving in within the last year."

Reid nodded, swallowing coffee and sighing appreciatively. "It's taken him all this time to let you know?" he asked in amusement.

"Well, that wasn't the only check he did. He carried on looking into Dunsmore's background, and it turns out that he's been going by his mother's maiden name, but he was born Paul Toffolo, which was confirmed by his marriage..."

Reid cut in abruptly. "Toffolo?"

Boydeau looked up from her notes. "Ring a bell, sarge?" she asked hopefully.

Frowning, Reid turned to the rest of the team and shouted, "Can somebody do a PNC check for me? Peter Toffolo, T-O-double F-O-L-O."

"On it, sarge," replied Leo Gent. Reid and Boydeau joined him as the results came up on his screen, and Gent read them out.

"Peter Toffolo, born 24 November 1936, Hemel Hempstead. Convicted of armed robbery 18 May 1983, sentenced to 17 years." Suddenly Gent sat bolt upright in his chair, and went on, "Absconded from Wandsworth Prison 2 August 1983." Gent paused and remarked, "If he'd done his time and behaved himself, he'd have been out ages ago."

"Knew I remembered the name!" announced Reid, pleased that his memory hadn't completely let him down.

"Don't suppose you forget a name like Toffolo", Boydeau observed.

Reid grinned. "Don't suppose you do," he agreed, "but I mostly remember it because I was one of the footsoldiers drafted in when he went over the wall at Wandsworth."

Gent, who was busily interrogating an online news database, suddenly said: "Here's an article about the break-out." He leaned back from the computer to give Boydeau and Reid a clearer view of the story and photograph, and the pair exclaimed together, "Richardson!"

They all looked at each other, shellshocked at this discovery, and Reid said, "So Richardson is Toffolo, and Dunsmore is..."

"...his son?" finished Boydeau, incredulously.

"It fits," replied Reid, returning his attention to the screen. Danielle approached with the list he'd asked for, and he waved her away almost absentmindedly, saying "Take it to the DCI."

She backed off in surprise, and Boydeau told the girl reassuringly, "Just pop through with it, he won't eat you. He's expecting it."

"Is Jack Richardson on that list?" called Reid after the departing Osborne.

"Yes, sarge," she answered, going through the pages as she came back. "90 Belmont Tower."

"_That_," said Reid, "is the first address we need to hit. Let the DCI know that!"

"Will do, sarge!" Galvanised by his unusual air of urgency, she went off at the run.

"Bloody got him," said Reid, with a grin of satisfaction.

**************

Two hours later saw a frustrated Reid and Boydeau heading back towards the Vectra empty-handed. The new tenant of 90 Belmont Tower had been both co-operative and polite, but knew nothing of Jack Richardson or his whereabouts. She'd allowed them to come in and give the place the once-over, but it had been stripped clean of any sign of Richardson's presence. The neighbours they tried had known Richardson by sight but nothing more; the lettings agents who ran the building knew him as Mr Blackwood and were still waiting for settlement of his final rent statement.

"Bollocks!" Reid flopped heavily into the passenger seat, "Bollocks, bollocks, _bollocks_!" He lit a cigarette, and it was a measure of Sheila's own dejection that she failed to give him so much as a disapproving glance. "Should have known."

"Known what, sarge?" enquired Boydeau, shoving her seat back so that she could twist round enough to look across at him.

"That the slippery old sod would move around like this. Second nature for a bloke like that, innit, keeping one jump ahead." Realising the car was filling with smoke he wound down the window.

"I'm only asking you this because Haemorrhoids will," Sheila said. "Why are we focussing on Richardson?"

"Cos he's a nasty, vicious, savvy bastard." Reid took a long drag and plumed smoke out of the window. "I'd only just joined the force when they nicked him and it was a big take for them. He'd done four or five blags and each time it got a bit bigger and a bit more ambitious. And a bit more violent. He'd have killed someone if they hadn't got to him when they did."

"How did he slip up?"

"He didn't." Reid drew the last ounces of pleasure from the tab-end and threw it out of the window, earning himself a faint _tut_ and an eye-roll, both of which he ignored. "One of his own lot grassed him up. They hit a jewellers', cleaned the place out, kicked the living crap out of the two blokes who owned it, and hid the proceeds. One of the gang cut a deal with the investigating officers and they were waiting for him at the next job. Bloke who grassed them up got off on a technicality. Hoping to get his hands on the stash while the others were inside, I reckon, but no-one ever found it, and two months after Richardson went over the wall the grass turned up in a canal with the back of his head missing."

Boydeau winced a little. "He's not afraid to get his hands dirty, then. So that ticks off nasty and vicious. What about savvy?"

"Stayed on the lam for twenty years – no-one's had a sniff of him in all that time, far as I know, and it's not like they weren't looking. I'd call that savvy." Reid let his head drop back against the headrest and closed his eyes. "We were so _close_!"

"We do have one advantage," Sheila said encouragingly. He opened one eye and gave her a sceptical look. "He doesn't know we're onto him," she went on, undeterred. "He knows we're onto Empey, and that we've got McVey in custody, but I'll bet you anything you like that neither of them knows his real identity. He has no reason to think we know he's Peter Toffolo, so he won't be expecting us. I don't think he's done this flit because of the investigation – it's just part of his routine. You said he stayed one jump ahead – well this time, he's only half a jump ahead, and we've got other leads to follow up. We're closer than anyone's been in years!"

"We ain't got the cigar yet!" Reid warned her, but he sounded a little mollified.

"Right then!" Sheila scooted her seat forward. "Back to the shop?"

"Better do." Sighing, he hunched himself upright in the seat and blinked, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. "Ow."

She glanced at him a little anxiously. "Got a headache, Sarge?"

He nodded, fumbling in his inside pocket. "Get the occasional one still. Got any water in here?" Boydeau passed him a plastic bottle from her door-pocket and he produced a strip of tablets, popped two out of the foil and gulped them down. "Stop staring at me like that, will you?"

"Sorry!" She turned away and then looked back at him. "Are you sure I shouldn't be taking you to A and E or something?"

Reid sighed heavily. "Do I look like I'm vomiting, fitting, hallucinating, seeing double, slurring my speech, being confused or bleeding from the nose or ears? Eh? If I start doing any or all of the above, feel free to whisk me off to a hospital. Otherwise, let's go back to bloody work!"

He closed both eyes firmly and remained silent for the entire trip back to Northcote. Sheila suspected at one point that he might have fallen asleep, but his eyes popped open the minute they drew up in the car-park and she knew better than to tease him when he was in this mood.

"Sarge, are you sure you shouldn't at least go and get something to eat? Your blood-sugar's probably down, and that won't be helping…"

"Sheila…" He broke off, but the unspoken "_… stop fussing!_" hung in the air between them and she held up both hands in a gesture of surrender.

Gryff Coleman looked up from his Daily Mirror as they went in, saw the set of Reid's shoulders and looked at Boydeau enquiringly. She pulled a face and mimed a stabbing motion at her boss's back, and the desk sergeant was forced to conceal his chuckle by coughing loudly.

At the top of the stairs Reid turned to Sheila. "The minute anyone comes up with even the suggestion of a whisper of where the bastard might be, or has even the slightest of leads on anything to do with this, it comes to me. Got it?"

"Loud and clear, skipper!" She clicked her heels and tipped him a mock salute, got a half-glare, half-smile in response and continued into the main office with a twinkle in her eye.

Reid went into his office, shut the door with a bang and stared gloomily at his desk, which held the promise of a long, tedious afternoon of paperwork. He still had a headache. "Bollocks!" he repeated under his breath.


	15. Chapter 15

**_And so we march onward..._**

**_Drop us a line if you read it and you like it!_**

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**Chapter 15**

Roughly an hour after his return to the office, Reid's phone rang and he snatched it up irritably. "Reid," he snapped.

"Only me," replied the cheery tones of Coleman. "I'm sick of the sight of this place, it's Friday lunchtime, and I'm going over the road. You coming?"

Reid leaned back in his chair. "Has Boydeau put you up to this?"

"Too right she has. And I haven't got my brown trousers on today, Tel, so for God's sake don't make me go back to her and confess failure. She'll staple my bits to the desk."

Despite himself, Reid had begun to laugh quietly. "Just to ensure the survival of the Coleman line, then," he said. "See you down there."

In the time that Reid was already beginning to classify in his head as BD – Before Denton – "over the road" had been a regular destination on Friday lunchtimes. The Miller's Arms provided its patrons with respectable food and decent beer and had thus far avoided being taken over by a chain and turned into a family dining experience; it sported red tapestry covers on its seats and had a worn carpet and a well-stocked CD jukebox. By the time Reid reached the pub, Coleman was already settled at the table in the alcove by the fire-exit, perusing the racing pages of his Daily Mirror. A pint stood at his elbow, and a cafetiere of coffee was waiting in the place opposite.

Coleman glanced up at his approach. "Good man. Get that down you," – he pointed at the coffee pot – "and let's get an order in. I can feel a steak and kidney coming on."

Somewhere around the end of his shepherd's pie it occurred to Reid that Boydeau was wasted on the police force and should probably go to work in the health sector. The company of the acerbic Coleman, who had a rich fund of gossip and took great delight in storing the juicy bits for later consideration, had lightened his mood and the food did indeed seem to have helped to improve his headache.

"I wouldn't want that one giving me a bed-bath!" shuddered Coleman when Reid advanced his Sheila theory. "That'd be taking your life in your hands, that would. Still…" he glanced up with a slightly-too-innocent expression "…maybe that was one of the things you had in mind."

Reid blinked at him, genuinely at a loss. Coleman held his angelic expression in place and the penny dropped. "Me and Boydeau? In your twisted dreams, Gryff!"

"Talk of the office, you two. All the little trainees whispering behind their hands."

"Oh for God's sake!" Reid was unamused. "What do you lot think this is – bloody NYPD Blue? Think I'm going to take her back to mine and give her one in the shower?"

"I know plenty of blokes who wouldn't mind a go," Coleman pointed his knife accusingly. "And don't tell me you haven't thought about it. Decent-looking woman, when she's not eating men's entrails for breakfast."

"In a word – no. I haven't. And because I know how attached you are to your entrails I'm not going to tell her you started this conversation."

Recognising the warning signs, Gryff backed off and went to the bar to order refills. Left alone, Reid allowed himself to briefly explore his feelings for Boydeau and was relieved to conclude that they were definitely not romantic. If anything, their relationship was more like a pair of siblings; they bickered constantly, but she gave as good as she got and never bore a grudge. He was beginning to realise that he'd taken advantage of their friendship a great deal over the years, and he hoped that she got something from it other than earache, exasperation and office gossip.

Coleman returned from the bar balancing a tea-cup in either hand, effectively ending Reid's introspection. "Did I get round to telling you yet about what Leo Gent did with the photocopier at last year's Christmas party? Very inventive. Claire didn't speak to him for a fortnight…"

********************

They headed back across to Northcote at an amble, Coleman nibbling the last of the complimentary amaretto biscuit he'd insisted on being provided with ("Discrimination against tea-drinkers, not getting a free biscuit. You get them with coffee!"), and Reid with the inevitable fag.

"Survived the first week okay, then." Coleman remarked as they crossed the car-park.

"It's been…" Reid groped for the right word. "…interesting."

Coleman laughed. "You done well, though, boy. Takes guts to throw yourself back in the deep end like that."

Reid made a non-committal noise around the last of his cigarette and plumed smoke from both nostrils. "No good putting it off any longer, was it? Kill or cure."

""What doesn't kill you makes you stronger", as my Granny used to say." Gryff paused in the act of shoving open the door. "I still think you got guts, Tel." He heaved the door the rest of the way open, delivered a hearty slap to Reid's shoulder and headed back to his desk.

Reid took the stairs two at a time, rubbing his shoulder absently. It had indeed been an "interesting" week, and after only five days it felt as if he'd been back forever. From this perspective it seemed like an age since he'd parked his car in Fairfax Road and walked across to speak to the excited McGowan.

Dropping his coat over the back of what he thought of as Hannigan's chair, he peered down at his latest To Do list. The headache had faded to a muted throb, proving itself a rank amateur compared to the assaults in the early weeks of his recovery which had lasted for days and been accompanied by violent nausea and crippling vertigo. All the same, he had no great desire to give this particular headache the excuse to attempt a reprise, and a large part of him was beginning to vote in favour of a few hours quiet filing and an early break for freedom. The little voice at the back of his mind, however, had other ideas. He picked up the phone and rang Danielle Osborne.

"Danielle? DS Reid… have you got the stuff DC Craig phoned in this morning? Can you just check for me, please – do we know who actually owns the house on Fairfax Road?"

Some rustling and scuffling at the other end of the line as Danielle balanced the receiver and her notes. Then came her voice: "It's rented out, sir. The owner is a Mr Blackwood, but the agents don't have a current address for him and his bank account appears to have been closed."

"Cheers." Reid lowered the phone thoughtfully. "Blackwood?" – as in "Mr Blackwood, ex-tenant of 90 Belmont Tower"? _Richardson wouldn't have been that obvious, surely? _But it would make a kind of sense to have certain aliases for certain areas of his life. Richardson the forklift driver. Blackwood the – what? Property developer? _He moved his son into the house. What for? _

Resigned to the fact that his quiet afternoon of filing was receding into the realms of the improbable, Reid lifted the receiver again and dialled Boydeau's extension. No reply. He swore mildly and grabbed his leather jacket from the chair. If she wasn't at her desk, she'd be at the canteen or down at the front desk, checking that she didn't need to commit a physical assault against Gryff Coleman. When he drew a blank at both locations, Reid cursed a little more richly and sprinted back up the stairs to the main CID office, mentally rehearsing a minor diatribe against people who couldn't be relied upon to be at their desks when wanted.

The door to the office was half-closed and as Reid entered he almost ran into Claire Jordan, who had been heading in the opposite direction. The young officer's expression was even more anxious than usual, and when she registered the identity of her near miss she looked so apprehensive that Reid felt as though he'd just stepped on an especially timid kitten.

"DS Reid..." she began

"Sorry, Claire," he cut in. "I'm after Boydeau; you seen her?"

"I was actually coming down to find you." To Reid's surprise, Jordan backed him out of the office and pulled the door closed behind her. She glanced up and down the empty corridor. "I think there's something the matter."

"What – with Sheila?"

Claire nodded. "She had a phone-call just before lunch, from home. I only know because she wasn't at her desk when the call came through and I took it for her." That wasn't unusual, Reid knew. Jordan's desk was near Boydeau's and they often answered each others' phones as necessity demanded. "She rang straight back when I told her, and she was on the phone for ages, five or six different calls. She looked awful, Sarge. I was just going to ask her what was up and she said something about going to the loo. That was a quarter of an hour ago and I haven't seen her since."

Reid frowned, then gestured for Claire to lead the way along the corridor in the direction of the ladies'. After a few seconds she emerged and beckoned to him. "She's locked herself into one of the cubicles and she won't talk to me."

Feeling almost as flustered as Jordan looked, Reid ran a hand through his hair. "No one else in there?" he asked, and Jordan shook her head. He squared his shoulders. "Right. Stand guard here!" he ordered, and ducked past her into the toilets.

There were four open cubicles and the last one was closed, the red flash by the handle showing it to be occupied. Reid strode the length of the room and stopped by the locked door. "WDC Boydeau," he barked, stressing the "W" to ensure the provocation of maximum indignation. "You've got Claire Jordan in the biggest flap of her short life and I'm about to be laid open to a potential charge of inappropriate behaviour by being found in the female staff lavs. So if you wouldn't mind getting this _bloody_ door open…"

The bolt clacked, the door swung open, and Boydeau emerged, pale-faced and red-eyed. Reid looked down at her, eyebrows raised in a silent question. Lips tightly pressed together she shook her head and turned away from him, leaning against the door-frame as though unable to support her own weight. Coming to a decision, Reid placed a steadying hand on each of her shoulders, pulled her gently upright, spun her around and marched her out onto the corridor.

Jordan was at her lookout post outside, shifting from foot to foot. As he went by, Reid said: "Big box of Kleenex or nearest equivalent and two mugs of tea, please, Jordan – bring them to my office."

Jordan disappeared on her errand and Reid propelled the unresisting Boydeau through the fire doors and round the corner to his office. Once inside he kicked the door closed behind them, dragged Hannigan's chair out from behind the desk and pushed her firmly into it. Then he pulled his own chair round so that he could sit down facing her, and propped his elbows on the desk.

"What's going on, Sheila?"

His practical, no-nonsense, rock-steady DC looked at him through swimming eyes. "It's Tom," she managed to choke out, before bursting into a storm of helpless tears.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

Claire Jordan arrived at Reid's door with a mug of tea in each hand and an incongruous box of Peter Rabbit tissues clamped under one elbow. Unable to knock at the door she carefully manoeuvred around so that she could use the other elbow to push the handle down, then gave the door a little bump with her hip. It swung softly open to reveal the startling tableau of the redoubtable Sheila Boydeau weeping her heart out into a very clean white handkerchief whilst her mardy, incommunicative boss hovered protectively at the other side of the desk.

Reid looked up as the door opened and came over to relieve Jordan of her awkward cargo. "Thanks," he said, lifting the mugs out of her hands and putting them on his desk. As he returned for the tissues he motioned her to step back into the corridor and pulled the door to behind him.

"Sorry about these." She put the box into his hands. "I had them in my bottom drawer."

"They'll be fine." He sounded distracted. "Who's Tom, d'you know?"

"That's her brother, sir. He's a mechanic, I think. He hasn't had an accident or something, has he?"

"Dunno yet." He rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully. "Do us a favour, Claire. Did anyone else cotton on to what's happening?"

"Don't think so, sir. I only noticed because her desk's right by mine. I know she wouldn't want a big fuss. I was coming to look for you when you came in, I didn't say anything to anybody else."

"Can we keep it that way? If anyone asks, we've gone out to Fairfax Road to follow up on a lead related to the cash and carry fire, and they can get me on my mobile, okay?"

Claire nodded, and was rewarded with a grateful smile before Reid ducked back into the office and closed the door behind him. She'd never noticed before how intensely blue Reid's eyes were… She was halfway back to the main CID office before she realised she was blushing slightly.

******************

Reid, if asked, would not have proclaimed himself an expert on other people's feelings, but after the last ten months he did know a thing or two about dealing with gigantic, overwhelming outpourings of emotion. He pulled out a dozen of the flimsy little tissues and substituted them for the drenched handkerchief. Then he perched himself quietly on the desk at Sheila's side and waited for the tempest to pass. This wasn't polite, grown-up crying; it was gut-wrenching, childlike sobbing and he gentled her as he might have soothed six-year-old Katie after a bad dream, rubbing her back between the shoulder-blades. Gradually the storm died away and she drew a series of long, shuddering breaths. He stopped the stroking, but left a hand resting on her back. "Take your time, kid."

That made her choke out a half-laugh. "I'm only five years younger than you, Granddad." She sniffed. "Oh, God…" she said, and waved a double handful of rolled-up tissues vaguely in the air.

Reid reached out a foot and hooked the bin across so that she could deposit them somewhere, pulled out a few fresh sheets and then put a mug of tea into Boydeau's hands, holding it steady till he was sure she'd got it tight. "Okay?"

"Getting there." She took a long gulp and closed her eyes. "Sorry."

"Shush." He leaned against the edge of the desk beside her, his own mug clasped between his fingers. "What's happened, Sheila?"

Boydeau drew another long, shivering breath, put down her mug, and blew her nose ferociously before aiming the damp tissues at the bin. When she finally began to speak, staring into the middle distance, her voice automatically took on the cadence of the professional copper giving a report.

"I've got a brother, Tom. He's ten years younger than me, a mechanic at the Mercedes garage over in Slough. He's ex-forces – he was in Serbia, served a couple of tours in Northern Ireland." Her eyes flicked up briefly to meet Reid's and then away again. "And he's an alcoholic."

"Sheila…"

She made a helpless gesture. "I know. I never meant it to be a secret – but it's not the sort of thing you just drop into a conversation. I couldn't very well say anything at the start, could I? "_Oh, by the way, Sarge, I think you should meet my brother, you'd have a lot in common. He's got substance abuse issues as well…" _And the longer I left it themore awkward it felt to bring it up. It would've felt like … like I was trying to get Brownie points off you, or show you my Girl Guide badge for handling addictive behaviour, or something. Anyway. It's done now. Or not done. Or whatever…"

Her voice trailed off and she took another long drink of tea. Reid sat quietly, feeling like every kind of a bastard imaginable. How long had he known her – three years? No, four. And he hadn't even known she had a brother, never mind anything else. _Self centred tosser, _he accused himself. _All that time she's been dealing with your mood-swings, covering up your lates and your no-shows, coping with your emotional fallout, and it never even occurred to you to wonder why she was so bloody good at it._

Sheila looked up. "Sorry. Rambling." She sighed and collected her thoughts. "He's gone missing. Tom, I mean. He had a row with his girlfriend yesterday, took off to the pub in a sulk about eight last night, and no-one's seen him since just after one this morning."

Reid glanced at his watch. Two thirty in the afternoon.

"I know it's not long, Sarge, but this is right out of character for him. There's a pattern to his benders – he goes out, gets hammered, and then either sleeps it off on a mate's floor and comes back the next morning all apologetic, or he turns up again in the small hours and cries all over us till he falls asleep and we put him to bed." Her matter-of-fact tone was almost worse than the sobbing of a few minutes earlier. "He's never, ever done this. I've rung round all his mates, and no-one can tell me anything. And I just keep thinking about Tom Ainslie…"

The tears began to flow again and this time Reid set his cup down and stooped to put an arm round her shoulders as he in his turn thought about Tom Ainslie, who might not have died if someone had listened when his mother phoned the police and told them he had acted out of character and that something was wrong.

**************

Four hours later, Reid stood on the grubby pavement outside Arcadia Mansions and looked up, reflecting that he'd never seen such an ironically-named spot in his life. This was his last port of call; if he turned up a blank here he would be forced to return to Sheila's Mum's and regroup. But he had a feeling that this was the place.

It had taken him about ten seconds to decide what he was going to do, and a good bit longer than that to persuade Sheila that she really didn't want to come with him. This one was too close to home for her. In the end he'd convinced her that her Mum and Tom's girlfriend needed her more than he did and he'd dropped her off at the neat little terraced house just after three, on the strict understanding that if he ran into any kind of trouble he was to contact her immediately. Having briefly met Mum and the girlfriend, who had been waiting for the car and popped out to shake hands when he pulled up, he was of the firm opinion that any call which would bring those three along would be a pretty bloody effective backup.

The route here had been circuitous, but it had taken him less time than he had feared. Starting with a list of names and phone-numbers for Tom Boydeau's mates, he had established that the wayward mechanic had last been seen refusing to leave the dancefloor at The Glitterball, a tacky but reasonably upmarket nightclub.

Armed with a recent photo he had procured from Sheila, Reid had started with the bouncers from the club, on the basis that anyone as drunk as Tom had been that night would have drawn their attention. A call to the club had produced the names and numbers of the door staff from the night before and it was at this point that Reid had a huge stroke of luck. The bouncer, Les, was an old hand who had poured Tom into the taxi himself – pretty far gone and accompanied by a red-haired girl – and knew which firm the cab was from.

Reid had driven round to the taxi firm and flashed his badge at the operator, who had consulted his log and put Reid on the track of the driver, a big, affable Sikh who remembered his passengers well: "He nearly puked all over my car, man. The lady tried to hold his head out of the window but he's a big guy. Don't know when I last saw a boy that drunk. Had to stop and open the door for him to lose it into the gutter. Puke in the car's not good, man."

From the driver had come the address where Reid now found himself. On arrival he'd parked up the Mondeo and called the local police station's community team, explaining the situation. The copper he'd spoken to had given a sour laugh. "Arcadia Gardens? More like Sin City in there, mate. Crawling with prossies."

Feeling miserable for Sheila, Mum and the girlfriend, Reid enquired whether any of the residents of the flats were reliable, and had been given a name and a flat number. He rang the bell of the entry-phone with an odd feeling in his stomach which redoubled when the speaker crackled with a familiar voice. He leaned forward. "Theresa Bellingham? DS Terry Reid – mind if I come in and have a word?"

A stunned silence was followed by the metallic swish of the automatic door drawing back and he stepped through into the downstairs lobby of the flats. The front door of the flat opposite him flew open, and Theresa emerged, staring. "Bleeding hell. Terry Reid!"

Hardly believing it himself, he grinned at her. "Bleeding hell, Terrie Bellingham…" Twenty-odd years before, in the few months between Reid leaving the army and joining the force, he and Theresa had enjoyed each others' company on a regular basis. It had been a business arrangement, and ended when he'd passed his entrance exams, but he had been glad of the company at the time and remembered her fondly. Small and vibrant with a heavy fall of honey-blonde hair, she had been the absolute antithesis of the brutal male world he'd lived in, and he was pleased to see she hadn't altered much.

She stepped back and gestured him inside the flat, which – not unlike its tenant - was agreeable, feminine and a little over-decorated. He looked round appraisingly. "Nice. You look pretty good, too."

"You look knackered," she answered frankly, tilting her head to peer up at him. "Don't they let you sleep in the police force then?"

"Only if you're a constable. And then you have to sleep standing up." Reid leaned on the frame of the living-room door and produced his cigarettes.

She sat down on the sofa. "I'm assuming this is business?"

"Sort of. I'm doing a favour for a friend." Briefly he outlined the situation whilst Theresa listened, head cocked to one side.

"Little redhead?" she asked as he finished. "That sounds like it might be Cathy from upstairs. Just let me get me coat."

She showed him the way to Cathy's flat, her heels clattering on the concrete steps at a rate of almost exactly two paces to every one of Reid's. He hesitated in the act of knocking on the door. "D'you mind hanging about? Only…"

"…she's more likely to talk to me than to six foot of grumpy copper? Budge over." She bumped him to the right with her hip and rang the bell. "Cathy? Cathy, you there? It's Theresa."

Silence from within, and they exchanged glances. "I've got no warrant," he said.

Theresa chewed her lip for a moment, then stooped down and peered through the letterbox. "Can't see nothing. Cathy!" She unleashed a full-throated bellow through the opening. "You in there? Open this sodding door!"

Still silence, and the glance they exchanged now was worried. "Kick it in," Theresa decided. Reid looked doubtful and she folded her arms defiantly. "Go on, give it some welly. I can get Garry from next door to mend it. Seriously, Terry." He was still hesitating. "I don't feel good about this. Get the bugger open."

Shrugging, Reid stepped back a little and employed the full force of his foot just by the Yale lock. The door splintered open and Theresa was in through the gap like a Jack Russell down a rabbit hole.

Reid followed more slowly, peering into the dimness. He had long ago learned that bad news had a distinctive smell – blood, grime, decay, despair – and was a little heartened to detect only cheap soap, stale wine and vomit. A rectangle of light spilled across the floor as Theresa drew back the curtains, and in the brightness they saw two figures, one on the bed, the other on the floor beside it.

"What a bloody mess!" Theresa stepped carefully over the prone form by the bed to shake Cathy by the arm. "Cathy! Wake up, you drunken cow. Come on!"

Much to Reid's relief, the sound of Theresa's voice roused not only Cathy but also the young man on the floor, who propped himself groggily on one elbow. "What's going on?"

"You Tom Boydeau?" asked Reid unnecessarily, staring down at Sheila's mirror image on the dirty carpet. "Your sister's worried about you."

Stumbling to his feet the youngster stared around him with something akin to horror. Reid watched the slow dawning of realisation spread across his face as memories plopped into place, one by one. He knew the feeling well.

Swaying a little, Tom turned to face Reid. "You know Sheila?"

"I'm her boss." Reid put his hands in his pockets and waited.

"You're Reid?" Tom's face fell even further. "Oh God – what time is it?"

"Half seven. Friday evening."

"Friday? You sure?" Reid nodded. Tom covered his face with his hands. "I'm a dead man. She's gonna skin me alive and feed me to her Siamese."

"Nah." Reid looked him up and down. "Probably just your entrails. Here," he added, throwing Tom his car keys. "Bottle-green Mondeo. Wait in the passenger seat."

Tom stumbled out of the door and Reid watched him go. He wondered for a moment if the lad would make it down the stairs in one piece, but he steadied himself on the wall and seemed to be making fair progress. Reid turned back to the bedroom. Cathy was staring up at him through false eyelashes and smeary mascara.

"What does he owe you?" Reid asked grimly.

"Nothing." She was blushing. "We never did nothing. We got back here and he threw up about three times down me loo, cried for about an hour and then fell asleep on me floor. I couldn't wake him up, so I got on the bed to wait for him and I fell asleep. Pathetic, innit?"

It was, but he hadn't the heart to say so.

Theresa walked back down the stairs with him and saw him to the door. They could see Tom in the Mondeo, his head resting against the window.

"Watch he don't hurl in your car," Theresa said. "He's gonna have that hangy for a month."

"He'll have worse than a hangy if he gets my upholstery." Reid looked down at her. "Sorry to fly in and out, Terrie. I've got to get him cleaned up and back home. Watch yourself, won't you?"

"You too. Look me up, if you're passing again."

They smiled at each other, knowing he wouldn't, and Reid headed for the car.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

They were less than two minutes into the journey when Reid made his second snap decision of the day. Even with the window down and a fag on, the smell was unbearable; he couldn't return Tom Boydeau to the bosom of his loving family in this state. At the T-junction he turned right instead of left and drove assertively, trying to breathe through his mouth.

There was a free parking-space opposite the entrance, for which Reid gave fervent thanks to the traffic gods. As he pulled on the handbrake, young Boydeau lifted his head blearily and blinked at his surroundings. "Where the hell are we?"

"My place." Reid swung out of his seat, walked round and opened the passenger door, almost spilling Tom out onto the pavement. He put a hand under his passenger's elbow and heaved him upright. "Come on, kid, let's go."

He half-guided, half-hauled his impromptu guest up the stairs to the flat and shovelled him through the bathroom door, relieved that Tom was at least capable of getting his own clothes off and climbing into the shower unaided. Whilst the shower was running, Reid threw the dirty clothes into the washing-machine, put the kettle on and began clattering through the cupboards in search of emergency provisions. He wasn't cooking much for himself at the moment, but his investigations turned up a tin of beans, half a dozen eggs, bread and butter. He was starving, and the kid would need some food in him to offset the effects of the alcohol.

Satisfied that he could put some sort of meal together, Reid phoned Sheila and passed on the good news. "You can come and pick him up in about an hour," he told her, "give him chance to perk up a bit before your Mum sees him." True to form, Sheila didn't ask where Tom had been and Reid didn't volunteer it. Family business was family business; it would be up to Tom to share whatever he chose about his adventuring.

When he heard the water stop, Reid re-boiled the kettle and began turning the heat on under the pans. Tom appeared in the kitchen a few minutes later, looking wan and shaky but much less like an escapee from a hostel, and Reid put a mug into his hand.

"Builder's tea." Reid explained as young Boydeau eyed the liquid suspiciously. "Strong with lots of sugar. Get it down your neck and then you're eating something." Tom opened his mouth to protest and Reid held up a firm hand. "Better to have something in you, whether you throw up again or not."

He stared at Tom unblinkingly until the lad had sipped the tea, shuddered a little, kept it down and sipped again. Satisfied, Reid motioned him to a stool by the breakfast bar and turned to break the eggs into the pan. As he did so the thought scrolled through his head: _I'm turning into the demon spawn of Jack Frost and Sheila Boydeau…_

They ate in companionable silence, after which Reid made yet more tea and washed up. Tom found a tea-towel and dried, and as they worked together the younger man relaxed a little. By the time Reid had emptied the bowl, dried his hands, lit a Rothmans and propped himself against the edge of the sink with his mug in his other hand, Tom was brave enough to ask: "Did you … er … say anything to Sheila?"

Reid shook his head. "Your business," he said matter-of-factly.

"My cock-up, more like." Tom sounded mournful and Reid eyed him thoughtfully.

"No real harm done, is there? You didn't go through with it in the end. Just another night on the piss."

"I can't live my life like this." Tom sat down on his stool again, the picture of dejection. "I keep thinking I'll sort it out, but…" He looked up at Reid almost pleadingly. "What am I gonna do?"

_Bloody hell, _thought Reid, who wasn't sure if he was fully responsible for his own actions yet, never mind advising Sheila's brother how to go about kicking his habit. "Change your mates, for a start," he suggested aloud. Tom stared at him and Reid elaborated: "A halfway decent mate wouldn't have left you in the club in that state. Don't go out with people who drink to get drunk."

Tom nodded slowly. Reid watched the lad processing his advice and wondered how far down the road he was. Still drinking to escape the memories – or had he begun to drink to escape himself? Finishing his cigarette, he ran it under the tap as usual and dropped the wet tab-end into the bin. "Nearly set me bed alight once," he explained, seeing Tom watching him. "Didn't stop the drinking though. Nor did smashing the house up, or the wife leaving, or her taking the kids." Tom's eyes were wide. He didn't ask the question, but Reid answered it anyway. "Realising I'd still got something to offer. Someone believing in me and giving me a chance to prove myself. Self respect." He shrugged. "And being hospitalised for three months with a cracked skull - that helped…"

Just as Tom began to speak, the bell rang. Reid smirked as the lad flinched. "That'll be your Sheila then. Don't worry, kid – if she launches an attack I'll block her off and you run for the door!"

Tom needn't have worried - Sheila arrived with a carrier bag in each hand and a businesslike air, and asked no questions. One bag she threw to her brother. "Clean clothes. Go and get sorted out – Mum and Caroline are going mental." As Tom disappeared obediently into the bedroom, she hoisted the other bag up onto the counter and put it down with a clank.

"What the hell's in there?" Reid asked, startled.

"Mum made you a casserole."

"You what?"

"A casserole. You know, meat, veg, gravy, all in a dish…" He gave her a long stare and she grinned. "She wanted to have you over for Sunday dinner as a thank you, and I said it'd be your idea of hell, so she made you this. You can microwave it and bring me the dish back."

"This food obsession's hereditary, then?"

She folded her arms. "Put it in the fridge."

He was saved from further orders by Tom's reappearance. Sheila jingled the car keys. "Right, we'll be off."

Tom held out a hand to Reid. "Thanks."

"No probs." Reid shook it.

The Boydeaus headed for the door. Sheila ushered her brother through the opening and turned back. "Terry…"

"S'okay."

She smiled.

"You got my home number?" Sheila nodded, a question in her eyes. "Give it to Tom, if you want."

She smiled again, gratefully, and was gone.

Reid flopped down on the chair in the lounge and ran his fingers through his hair. _Oh God. I think I just became a mentor._

*******************

It was the sun in his eyes that woke him. Befuddled, he shifted his head a little out of the glare and winced as his neck-muscles howled a protest. He was in the armchair, fully clothed, legs stretched out across the rug, chin sunk on chest. The television opposite was dancing with the garish shapes and colours that signalled "Children's Programme" in foot-high letters and the remote was on his lap. He had a vague memory of thinking that he'd just stretch out for five minutes and stare at the TV before he went to bed; clearly it had been a little more than five minutes. Feeling frowsy and scruffy he sat up and cautiously turned his head from side to side, easing the locked muscles. At least he'd had a good night's sleep – it must have been well before midnight when he nodded off.

What time was it now, anyway? Lifting his arm, Reid focussed on his watch and was suddenly wide awake. It was nine o'clock on Saturday morning and he was due at Louise's to pick up the kids in two hours.

Within thirty minutes he'd showered, shaved, eaten a banana with his coffee and slung on his oldest pair of jeans and his Arsenal shirt, proudly purchased to commemorate the club's league triumph in '98. It was part of the tradition of taking Danny to football that Reid wore the shirt so that Danny could roll his eyes and accuse him of wearing "old fashioned stuff". Checking his wallet for cash, he clattered down the stairs and was in the car before ten, heading for Louise's neat semi in Crawley.

Paul was mowing the lawn as Reid pulled up in the car, and raised a hand in greeting. The two of them co-existed peacefully without being great friends – Reid was glad that Louise had found someone who gave her stability and whom the kids liked, and made a point of maintaining an atmosphere of mutual respect.

"It's open," Paul called across, indicating the door.

Reid knocked anyway, then pushed the door open and shouted "'Ello?" through the gap.

A commotion of small children came hurtling down the hallway, Louise hovering in their wake, and not even the apparently indelible faint unease behind his ex's greeting could dim the rush of joy that swelled inside Reid as he bear-hugged Danny with one arm and swept Katie up in the other so that she could cuddle into his neck.

"All ready, kids?"

"Nearly!" Louise answered for them as Danny began to bounce around the front step kangaroo-style. "I just need to grab coats…"

Ten minutes of bustling and domestic flap saw all zips fastened, shoes found, bows done up and Danny's team scarf retrieved from under his school coat on the bedroom floor, and they were piling into the Mondeo, into which Paul, in his quietly efficient way, had transferred the booster seats. Louise was clearly making an effort, and even managed not to ask Reid to be careful as he swung into the driver's seat; they pulled out to a flurry of waving, Danny's scarf fluttering from the back window in the approved footie fan style.

The remainder of the day was a complete triumph. Early lunch at the frowned-upon, and therefore completely alluring, McDonald's, was followed by meeting Katie's friend and her parents at a nearby park and spending an hour testing out the adventure playground. Leaving Katie to go on to a birthday party, Reid and Danny departed for Highbury, where an increasingly ecstatic Danny saw his beloved team thrash Leicester City 4-0 and the two of them shared pies and Bovril at half-time. Detouring to collect the cake-sozzled Katie they were home by half six, and Reid accepted an invitation to stay for tea because it meant he could legitimately then hang on to put Katie to bed and be roundly trounced by Danny at Super Mario.

He arrived back at his flat around nine in the evening as happily exhausted as either of the kids, and this time managed to fall into bed with a pile of Mojo magazines and a mug of decaff before he dropped off to sleep.

*********************

Sunday passed by in a haze of peaceful self-indulgence, encompassing the morning papers, a trip to a DIY shop for a new CD rack and an afternoon of emptying out the storage box which had housed his blues and jazz collection and re-homing them, neatly alphabetised. He ate Sheila's Mum's casserole to the strains of the Natural Blues album, which Sheila had sent him whilst he was in hospital and which he hadn't listened to properly until now, and then drove out to nearby Wychworth Heath and worked it off with a walk which took him in a meandering loop through the village and around the woodland beyond.

Feeling comfortable in his own skin was still a new sensation to Reid, and he enjoyed days like these to the full when they happened. Increasingly there were more of them and correspondingly fewer of the dark times, but he was learning to go with the flow and just try to work with whatever came along.

What came along at three in the morning was a full-blown nightmare that tore him from sleep and resulted in him ending the weekend on the sofa, smoking his way through the small hours until it was late enough to ring Sheila and arrange to meet her at Fairfax Road. Having used the place as an alibi on Friday afternoon, it was sense for the two of them to go there before they spoke to anyone who might ask a question about it, and Reid's instincts were insisting that the house had more to tell them.

Empey was well beyond their reach for now, and much of the paperwork they'd impounded from the cash and carry was on the way to the terrorist unit for analysis, but the whereabouts of Richardson, the disappearance of Dunsmore and the death of Tom Ainslie were still very much their problem.

Monday morning, 9am. Reid got out of the car and, with an air of déjà vu, saw Sheila in the garden, spectacles on and notebook in hand. One week down.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

"What d'you think, sarge, shall we just move in here, or what?" Sheila was kicking clods of earth as if by so doing she might discover something new.

Reid grinned at the thought of domesticity with his junior officer and replied, "Not if you're going to keep confiscating my fags." However, he refrained from lighting up another one while they were there, much to Sheila's gratitude.

"I suppose it was a bit of an oversight that we didn't get a search warrant for this place, after Wimbledon Close," he remarked, as they wandered around the ground floor of the property.

"Technically, it's still a crime scene," answered Sheila.

Reid's eyebrows went up. "So we're still within our rights to look in a few cupboards?" he suggested.

Boydeau shrugged indifferently. "Don't see why not. The property's in Richardson's name, albeit a false one, and as he's still a fugitive I'm pretty sure that should cover us searching his domicile."

"M'lud," finished Reid with a smirk. Sheila lobbed a cushion at him.

"Well, it seemed to work out last time, so if you have a shufty upstairs, I'll take down here," was his reply. He paused for a moment and then went on, "The first search of the house was for a body, not guns, so I think it's fair to assume that uniform might have missed any high-grade weaponry about the place."

"First one to find something gets to tell Haemorrhoids," called Sheila over the bannisters.

"Ha bloody ha," replied Reid, as he tested the floor in the living room. His cousin had once told him that a good way to judge the soundness of a property was to bounce up and down a little on the floorboards. That advice suddenly came good as Reid felt a noticeable difference on reaching the furthest corner of the room. Down on one knee, he felt round the edges of the carpet until his hand found a gap between the tacks. With a single rip, he pulled the Axminster and underlay back to reveal a set of boards that appeared much newer than the surrounding ones.

"Sheila!" he hollered, and his tone was urgent enough to bring Boydeau cannoning down the stairs and into the front room. The floorboards were completely unsecured, which was what had alerted Reid to them in the first place, so it was a simple case of lifting them up and putting them to one side, to reveal a crate of guns similar to the ones he had found in Empey's house.

"Seems like no home in Northcote should be without them," observed Reid facetiously.

**********

"Another one to chalk up, eh, Reid?" beamed the DCI. _He means for him, _thought Reid, but merely nodded and smiled in reply.

"DI Pyle has had to take some compassionate leave – mother-in-law's died – so I'm putting you in overall charge of this case for the duration, all right? You've certainly brought all your skillset to bear on this one, I'd say, so it's yours by rights." Brocklehurst waited for the response to his display of magnanimity, and was perhaps a little disappointed at the, "Thank you, sir," he got instead.

"Yes, well...what do you plan to do next?" he went on.

"DC Boydeau is liaising with SO15, and they'll be sharing anything they have on the origins of the weapons. Danielle Osborne has a lead on another address for Jack Richardson a.k.a. Peter Toffolo..."

"...hopefully with better results than the last time," put in Brocklehurst, obviously still a little peeved at Reid's lack of ingratiation.

"As you say, sir. The man's been covering his tracks for over twenty years, but I'm convinced he's central to this whole case."

Brocklehurst leaned back thoughtfully in his chair. "I can see a promotion in this for you, Reid, if you crack it. Definitely. Make sure you dot all the i's and cross all the t's, mind you."

"Yes, sir." He left the DCI's office as quickly as was decent and went to find Sheila, who was in conference with the diggers. Reid stood on the edge of the group and listened as she spoke to them.

"We don't as yet have any definite confirmation that Empey has left the country, so continue to monitor his bank account and credit card activity. Customs will notify us if he uses his passport, although I would think if he had any brains he'd try and sneak out in a small boat or something like that, to avoid being caught."

"Leo and I've questioned all the staff from Gold Star that we can find, and they all seemed genuinely shocked by the suggestion that Empey was up to anything dodgy," said Claire Jordan.

"Does that include Richardson, McVey or Dunsmore?" Reid chimed in.

"No, sarge," replied Jordan. "They're the three outstanding employees we've still to question."

"'Outstanding' wouldn't be the word _I'd_ use to describe them," muttered Reid.

"Obviously Richardson is our number one priority," instructed Boydeau, "given that he's been on the run for most of your lives. Danielle, anything on that address yet?"

"I've checked out several properties that are listed under Richardson's name, as well as under his alias of Blackwood, and checked Toffolo for good measure too. Nothing." She looked disappointed.

"Have you tried 'Dunsmore'?" asked Reid. There was an embarrassed silence which was eventually broken by Boydeau saying quietly to Danielle, "I should get on to that if I were you." The poor girl scuttled off to her workstation, and the rest of the group dispersed.

"Something I said?" Reid span round on his heel, surveying the CID room proprietorially but with good humour.

"How'd it go with BB?" Boydeau asked him. He nodded towards his office and waited until the door was closed before answering.

"So-so, just told him where we were. But..." he paused for dramatic effect, "...guess what? The lovely DI Pyle has gone on compassionate leave, so he'll be out of our hair for a few days at least, hopefully. Meanwhile BB wants me to run the case, which, while it has its drawbacks, is a bit of a relief – no having to account for every minute of every bloody day."

Sheila nodded in agreement, and was about to say something when someone rapped on the glass door. "Come in, it's not locked," called Reid, and Leo Gent appeared.

"Got something you probably want to take a look at, sarge," he said. "I think your suggestion about checking Dunsmore's records might have paid off."

**********

"Here we go again," sighed Reid, as they rounded the corner into Randall Avenue. A patrol car awaited their arrival, and WPC Forrester greeted Reid and Boydeau as they got out of the Vectra.

"We got here as soon as you radioed us, sarge, and nobody's been in or out of the block in the last forty-five minutes. Nick's round the back, just in case." She indicated the rear of the high-rise block.

Reid nodded approvingly. "Right then, let's get up there. Gayle," he said to Forrester, "you and Nick take the stairs. Our suspect's got a bit of history as a slippery customer."

Forrester grimaced but replied, "No problem. Nick," she said into her radio, "meet me at the stairs. We're going up to the ninth floor." She turned the volume on her receiver down, but not before everyone clearly heard Nick Lemon say, "Bug...."

Grinning from ear to ear, Reid entered the building and pressed the button to summon the lift. It juddered to the ground floor, empty; he and Boydeau boarded it, and she pressed the button marked "9". They were met at the ninth floor by a slightly out of breath pair of PCs.

"No sign of him on the stairs, sarge," reported Forrester, determined not to look unfit.

"Good. It's along here." Reid led the way down the corridor to his left, and turned the corner at the end of it. "Flat 907. This is it." He made sure they were all assembled, then rang the doorbell. From inside, a familiar West Country voice called out, "Who's there?"

"Detective Sergeant Reid, Mr. Richardson. We spoke the other day at your workplace."

There was a leaden silence, then, "Oh yes." The door still didn't open.

The four officers looked at each other, and Reid continued, "We're checking everybody got out of the fire safely."

Various bits of ironmongery rattled, and Richardson held the door ajar, his body planted squarely in the entrance to the flat. "As you can see, sergeant, I'm absolutely fine. I had the day of the fire off, lucky for me. But thank you for being so concerned." His eyes took in the group on his threshold, and he began to close the door again. Reid, however, had other ideas, and a firm hand stopped it in its tracks.

"We have a warrant to search these premises, Mr. Richardson. Please stand aside." Reid moved so quickly that Richardson had no alternative but to get out of his way, and the others followed.

Almost at once, from the living room, Sheila called out, "Sergeant Reid, I think you should come in here!"

He entered the room to find Boydeau standing over a podgy, middle-aged man who was sitting on the sofa, beer in hand, looking blankly up at first her, and now Reid. The family resemblance was undeniable.

"Paul Dunsmore or Toffolo, I believe?" said Sheila.

At the mention of this last name, Jack Richardson made an unexpectedly nimble break for the front door, but Lemon and Forrester were alert, and managed to pin him to the wall beside the intercom.

"Nice try," smiled Forrester, "but no cigar."

Richardson struggled to get free, and Reid came out into the hall. "Bracelets," he instructed, and Lemon made swift use of his handcuffs.

Reid could see the perspiration breaking out on Richardson's forehead. "Been a long time, hasn't it, Peter? What's that, nineteen years now? I remember it like it was yesterday. That was one hell of a hot summer. They had us plods combing the common for you, dragging the pond just in case...ah, those were the days," he said wistfully, popping a fag in his mouth and lighting up.

"And where did it get you?" he went on. "As somebody at the nick pointed out the other day, if you'd stayed put and been a good boy, you'd have been out years ago. Instead, you've spent your life twitching when someone calls 'Peter,' diving into a doorway when you hear a police siren - what kind of life is that?" He blew a cloud of smoke above Richardson's head, letting it slowly fall over him. The man coughed slightly and cursed under his breath.

"Righty-ho," announced Reid, breezily, and with a wave of his hand. "Get him booked into the Northcote Hotel, and we'll have a word with Toffolo Junior here."

Forrester and Lemon departed with their prisoner, and Reid returned to the lounge, where Dunsmore was still sitting under Boydeau's watchful eye, looking utterly perplexed at the rapid turn of events.

"Now, your dad," said Reid conversationally, as he sat down in the armchair opposite, "will be going away to do the time he should've done in the 80s, plus a few years more for legging it. Come to think of it, that must be a family trait – we've been looking for _you_ for a few days, too, since your disappearing act."

"What d'you think, sarge, murder or manslaughter?" asked Boydeau, leaning on the back of Reid's chair.

"What?!" exclaimed Dunsmore, aghast. "Now look here..."

"I am looking," replied Reid, "and I have to say I don't particularly like what I see. But on the whole, I think probably murder. You deliberately and with malice aforethought, as they say in court, chased Tom Ainslie to his death over the edge of Elmheath Quarry." He looked across at Dunsmore, his intense gaze burning the guilty man's conscience.

"That wasn't me! That was an accident! He done my living room window in!"

"No he didn't," said Boydeau, "he just chanced to be there at the time, and you took it out on the first person you saw."

Dunsmore was struck dumb, and the reality of what had happened hit him like a lorryload of bricks. He bowed forward, despairing head in hands, and Reid and Boydeau exchanged a meaningful look. Ainslie's death had obviously been unintended, but that didn't make him any less dead.

"On another point of order," said Reid, sticking with the legalspeak, "we'd like to ask you a few questions about the notebook we found in your dining room drawer, your work at the Gold Star Cash and Carry, and some items of Russian origin we've been finding in various parts of this manor. But all that can wait," he announced generously as he rose to his feet, "until we get you tucked up nice and cosily in an interview room." In anticipation of Dunsmore's next outburst, he handed him the phone. "Want to call your brief?" he asked.

***********

"I'll take Richardson if you want to take Dunsmore," proposed Reid through a mouthful of sausage and mash. He pushed the ketchup across the table to Boydeau, who was similarly occupied.

"Aw, sarge! I wanted to see you take Richardson apart," she objected, unscrewing the lid of the sauce bottle.

"Well, if you're that bothered, I don't have a problem with it. Just means it'll take us twice as long to get the job done, and I'd like it cleared up before Pyle gets back, if at all possible."

Boydeau frowned, and whacked the bottom of the ketchup container a bit too vigorously, spreading a red puddle over her entire plate and its surrounds. Reid bit his lip for a few seconds, but finally gave in and guffawed heartily. An accompanying selection of sniggers and chuckles rippled around the room, and the tension of the last few days dissipated along with the sauce as it dripped off the edge of the canteen formica. Sheila smiled wryly at her predicament and tried to mop up the mess with a completely insufficient paper napkin.

"Looks like you could do with some help, and I'm sure it would be twice as effective if we both sat in on the two interviews," said Reid, when he had managed to regained his composure.

Gryff appeared at his side. "Message for you, Tel. Transport are holding Frank Empey at Newcastle Airport - he was trying to get on a flight to Bulgaria."

Reid and Boydeau looked at each other in triumph, and got up from the table as one. Gryff held out his hands in protest. "It's OK, you don't have to go up there and collect him in person. They're sending him back here this afternoon."

"Great!" exclaimed Sheila, excitedly. "I'll go and tell the rest of the team, sarge." She shot off through to CID.

Gryff looked at the crash site that had been their lunch table. "I knew it'd end in bloodshed," he remarked, and bustled back downstairs before Reid was tempted to continue the carnage.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

"It's all go in the custody suite!" Leo Gent was the most animated Reid had ever seen him. "Dunsmore's in his cell, and I've got Richardson waiting in Interview 3 for you, as requested, sarge."

Reid stubbed out the last of his smoke on the bin at the entrance to the police station, and strode back into the building, Leo in tow. "How did he seem?" Reid asked him.

"Neither up nor down, to be honest; a bit resigned, if you ask me," came the reply.

"I _did_ ask you, Leo, and I expect you to _always_ be completely honest when you tell me things." Reid occasionally liked to remind his junior colleagues that he was their sergeant, not their mate down the pub, and that they should think before they spoke.

Somewhat humbled, Leo muttered, "Sorry, sarge," and led the way in to the custody area. Sheila was ushering the ubiquitous Mr. Stafford into the room where PC Lemon was minding Jack Richardson.

"I hope this doesn't mean a conflict of interests," said Reid as the solicitor took a seat on the other side of the table.

Stafford raised a quizzical eyebrow and Boydeau clarified, "You also represent Gordon McVey or Whyte, another person of interest in this same case, and whose whereabouts are currently not known."

"I can assure you, sergeant, that no such conflict exists," answered the brief. "And as to Mr. McVey's location, this is not yet a police state, as far as I am aware, and he is free to go wherever he chooses."

"Under certain bail conditions," Reid pointed out. "However, we're not here to discuss those; as long as you can assist your client here, we'll get going." He switched on the tape recorder, he and Boydeau identified himself, then Richardson and Stafford also obliged.

"Mr. Toffolo," began Reid, and Stafford stopped him at once. Reid looked at him in disbelief.

"If you are planning on interviewing anyone except Mr. Richardson, you will need to excuse him," stated Stafford in a rather pedantic manner.

Reid sighed, looked down at the table, then across it again with renewed determination in his eyes. "Mr. Stafford, if you will stop buggering about and insulting our intelligence, we can get this over with much more quickly. You, I, and everybody else in this building, including the cleaners, know that Mr. Richardson is in reality Peter Toffolo, late of Wandsworth nick via several aliases and who knows how many addresses. His fingerprints will no doubt bear me out on this. Now can we get on?" he finished with an air of resignation.

Stafford gave a grudging shrug, obviously displeased with the response, but as he couldn't argue with forensics, he waved his hand in a gesture of consent. Richardson looked equally unhappy.

"You are Peter Grady Toffolo, date of birth 24th of November, 1936?" asked Reid, and got a nod in return.

"Just wanted to clear that up," said Reid scathingly. "Now, Mr. Toffolo, can you explain to us first of all your connection to the property at 32 Fairfax Road, Northcote, NW9?"

Toffolo began to say, "No co...." and Reid brought the palm of his hand down on the table so hard that the recording machine rattled, and even Boydeau almost jumped out of her skin.

"I am _not_ going to stand for any more of this bloody nonsense!" said Reid through clenched teeth. "A man is dead, people's lives have been put at risk by an arsonist, and there are more arms stashed in this parish than in sodding Afghanistan. And you," he jabbed an accusatory finger at Toffolo, "are slap bang in the middle of it all. You need to tell me what you know if you expect any leniency at sentencing."

"I won't have you threaten..." interrupted Stafford, only to have Reid's wrath descend on him as well.

"And as for _you_, you will speak only when necessary to advise your client. You will _not_ interrupt myself or my colleague unless it is on a point of law. Do I make myself clear?" Stafford shrank back into his seat, folded his arms, and was silent.

Boydeau repeated, "The house in Fairfax Road, Mr. Toffolo?"

There was a reluctant silence, and then Toffolo answered, "It's mine."

"And your son, Paul Dunsmore, has been living there?" she continued.

"Yes."

"And did you know a Tom Ainslie?"

"Of course I bloody did - he worked beside me. You lot know all this crap already, you spoke to everybody in the place, didn't you?" Toffolo threw himself back in his chair in disgust, the cosy rustic burr now all but gone from his voice.

"Were you aware that your son was responsible for chasing him to his death in Elmheath Quarry?" went on Boydeau remorselessly

"That was an accident and you know it!" Toffolo burst out, enraged.

"Nevertheless, you knew what had happened, and not only did you withhold vital evidence concerning that incident, you also hid your son so that he didn't have to answer any awkward questions," Boydeau pointed out.

Toffolo sat mutely defiant, unable to deny the accusations.

"However, let's move on." Reid spoke calmly and almost smiled. He loved keeping interviewees guessing, and he had got some of his best results by being unpredictable. Already he could see Stafford's brows furrowing.

"You also worked, at Gold Star Cash and Carry, with a Francis George Empey." Reid looked up from his notes for confirmation.

"Yes," sighed Toffolo, who was now trying to affect an air of indifference.

"Do you know the current whereabouts of Francis Empey?" Reid kept a surreptitious eye on Stafford at this juncture; he wanted to know just how bent this brief was. If Stafford had been in contact with Frank Empey since his arrest, or had any idea that he had even _been _arrested, Reid would spot it.

Toffolo shook his head, and looked genuinely ignorant of the fact that Empey was at this moment in the tender care of Northumbria Police and awaiting transport to speed him southwards. Stafford appeared just as clueless, as far as Reid could discern.

His next question, "Have you ever visited Francis Empey's home?" seemed to catch Toffolo completely off guard. He blinked uncomprehendingly at both police officers.

"It's a fairly simple question, Peter." Sheila shifted forwards in her seat and leaned on the table, her body language inviting an answer. About twelve seconds' worth of silence did the trick.

"Yes! I went to his house, once, to pick up some stuff he'd forgotten to bring in to work," barked Toffolo, frustrated.

"What kind of 'stuff'?" asked Boydeau.

"I don't know," tossed out Toffolo, a bit too quickly to be convincing. "It was in a box, I didn't look inside. More..."

"...than your job's worth, yes, we get the idea," finished Reid, witheringly.

"And on what date was this?" asked Sheila, her pen poised to take notes.

"Dunno. Maybe a couple of months ago," answered Toffolo, uninterested.

Reid produced a sheet of paper and pushed it across the table to Toffolo and Stafford. "I am now showing the suspect a timesheet from the Gold Star Cash and Carry warehouse where he was employed until recently," he announced for the benefit of the recorder. "Is this your timesheet, Mr. Toffolo?"

"Got my name at the top, hasn't it?" came the grunted reply.

"It shows quite clearly your working hours for the last three months. During that time, you were at the warehouse for an average of four days a week. Perhaps if you look at it," Reid said more loudly, Toffolo's attention having wandered, "it will help you remember the date that Frank Empey asked you to fetch the box from his home to the warehouse."

Toffolo looked at Reid with enough venom to fell a buffalo, then glanced at the sheet. "It would have been a weekday," he said as casually as he could manage.

"Well, that narrows it down a bit," responded Reid. "OK, let's talk about something else. Why did Frank Empey ask you to burn down the warehouse?"

Stafford sat bolt upright in his seat, alarmed beyond measure, and Toffolo could only sit with his mouth hanging open. "I must protest...," said Stafford, half-heartedly, to which Reid replied, "Don't strain yourself." Then, to Toffolo, "Do you know the current sentence for arson? I think we could probably stretch it to attempted murder, given that there were folk in the place when it went up." He turned to Boydeau, who nodded in agreement.

Toffolo murmured something in Stafford's ear, and the solicitor spoke up. "My client absolutely refutes the idea that he had anything whatsoever to do with the fire you refer to. He was attending a hospital appointment that day, and has the paperwork to prove it."

"Write down the name of the doctor you saw, and when you saw him," Sheila instructed, turning her notepad round so that Toffolo could use it. She handed him her pen, Stafford gave a nod towards it, and Toffolo began scribbling. When he had finished, Boydeau tore off the sheet and left the room with it. Reid noted her departure on the recording, and continued with the interview.

"It won't take us long to confirm what you've told us – or otherwise," he said. His eyes took on a steely look and he leaned in closer to Toffolo. "Meanwhile, I want you to tell me _everything_ you know about Frank Empey, his business – and not just the cash and carry, either – and who he's working with. Otherwise, I might be led to believe you were complicit in torching that warehouse. Understand?"

His words had the required effect on Toffolo, who for the next twenty-five minutes spilled everything he could remember hearing about Empey, including his preference for knock-off designer suits, his clandestine love for Ms Ellis, and the fact that he had a large number of cousins dotted around the country, any one of whom was likely to be shielding Empey.

When the well had finally dried up, Reid had him returned to his cell and told Stafford that after a break they would be interviewing Paul Dunsmore. The oily man simply snorted and shuffled off towards the front desk.

**********

Over tea and biscuits in his office, Reid and Boydeau pieced together the most salient facts that Toffolo had disclosed. One, that Empey was in the gun-running business; two, that Dunsmore knew about it and was "minding the shop" in Fairfax Road on his father's behalf; and three, that Empey had been planning to somehow get rid of any incriminating evidence concealed in the warehouse.

"But we knew some of that already from what McVey told you the other day," Sheila reminded Reid.

"That Empey and Richardson were in cahoots with each other, yes, but I'm convinced that McVey knew a lot more detail than he led us to believe – in fact, I'd stake my pension on it that he gave us those two in order to throw us off his own trail...hence his subsequent disappearance off the radar," Reid finished, throwing the empty biscuit wrapper into the bin and taking a swig of tea.

"I don't think Dunsmore will be as tough a nut to crack as his pa," Boydeau declared, rummaging in her handbag for a packet of mints. She found them and offered one to Reid, who hesitated, realised he wasn't going to get his usual cigarette break, and took three Polos in lieu.

"No doubt about that," he agreed. "Still, we shouldn't take anything for granted. Toffolo may have passed a message to him via Stafford that he'd better keep shtum on certain facts. He's obviously well under the old man's thumb."

"Hmm...you know what, sarge? I think if we can get Dunsmore to talk he may be the key to this whole case. He probably knows a lot more than Toffolo realises, things he's overheard that he shouldn't have, and though he's not the brightest button in the box, once he's in that interview room, all he'll want to do is save his own skin."

Reid narrowed his eyes as if imagining the scenario, and a slow smile crept across his face.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

A phone call from Gryff summoned Sheila to the public counter, where he indicated with a tilt of his head the person she was to meet. A young woman, dressed in a designer suit and wearing dangerously expensive shoes, was sitting gingerly as if she might catch something from the chair.

Sheila looked askance at Gryff, who beckoned her over and whispered, "Paul Dunsmore's brief. A Miss Kowalewska." He said no more, but raised his eyebrows with more than a hint of scepticism. Boydeau, too, wondered how in the world this upmarket solicitor had got in tow with the likes of Dunsmore; she subconsciously brushed her suit jacket down and approached the woman.

"Miss Kowalewska? DC Sheila Boydeau. I'm handling Mr. Dunsmore's case."

"Pleasure to meet you." The brief stood up and shook hands.

"This way." Boydeau motioned for her to follow, and continued as they went through to the custody area, "Detective Sergeant Reid and myself will be interviewing your client. I believe they're waiting in the interview room, if you'd like to come this way." She ushered her in to join Reid and Dunsmore, and it was a toss-up which of the two looked more surprised at Miss Kowalewska's appearance. Sheila decided Dunsmore was marginally more bewildered.

The solicitor turned to Reid, smiled and said, "I would appreciate a few minutes in private with my client, if you please."

"Call it five," said Reid, shortly, and he and Sheila left the room.

"Where the hell did she come from?" he asked, once the door was closed behind them.

"Your guess is as good as mine, sarge. And Dunsmore seemed just as much in the dark as we are."

After the appointed time was up, Miss Kowalewska opened the door and said, "We're ready for you now."

They re-took their places, Sheila started the recording, and they all introduced themselves. "OK, Mr. Dunsmore," she began, "we'd like to ask you some questions about some items found in the living room of your home in Fairfax Road – or to be more accurate, found _under_ the living room floor."

Dunsmore looked as if he was going to be sick but said nothing. Sheila carried on. "For the tape, I'm showing Mr. Dunsmore a photograph taken of items recovered from..."

"That Empey bloke, he put them there," Dunsmore broke in, desperately. He took a swig from the plastic cup of water in front of him. "You know who I mean? The cash and carry manager."

Reid nodded. "We know who you mean, Mr. Dunsmore. When you say 'he put them there,' do you mean that Frank Empey personally placed this crate of guns underneath your floorboards, in your presence?"

Dunsmore nodded. "That's right. Said if I didn't go along with it, he'd grass Dad up to you lot."

"Right. Did he often ask you to 'look after' things for him?" asked Reid.

"Sometimes. I hadn't been living there that long and he came round, offering me a job, only I didn't know, did I, there was strings attached. I thought he was doing it 'cos Dad worked for him."

"What did your dad think about the guns? After all, it was his house."

Silence ensued. "Did your father know about the guns?" prodded Sheila. Miss Kowalewska leaned over to Dunsmore and said something very softly to him.

"I don't know."

Reid sat back, arms folded. "What, you're telling me that although it was your father's property, he had _no_ idea about Frank Empey hiding guns in the house?"

"No, my client is saying that he _doesn't know_ if his father was aware of the guns,"answered Miss Kowalewska.

Reid looked belligerently at her, then back at Dunsmore. "All right. How many times did Empey get you to hide things for him?"

"Only once or twice. Listen, I never wanted to do it, but he was my boss! What was I supposed to say?"

"'No'?" retorted Reid, sardonically. He drew his chair closer to the table, nearer to Dunsmore. "I'll be honest with you, Mr. Dunsmore. It really doesn't look good for you. We only have your word for it that Frank Empey forced you to hide highly dangerous weapons in your home. The bottom line is, they were found on _your_ premises. He didn't live there; _you_ did. A jury is going to draw their own conclusions, and the penalties for gun-running are very stiff indeed – as I'm sure Miss Kowalewska here will tell you," Reid added, seeing the brief was about to try and placate her client, who by this time looked on the verge of a complete nervous breakdown.

Sheila pitched in now. "The best thing you can do, Mr. Dunsmore, is to tell us everything – about Gold Star, about Frank Empey, about those guns in your living room. Once we have all the facts we'll be better able to judge just how far your involvement goes."

"My client has already told you the truth, detective. He was an unwilling participant in... all of this," the solicitor said, not terribly convincingly.

"So he says, Miss Kowalewska," replied Sheila. "But just a snapshot of the basic truth isn't going to be enough – we need to see the whole picture to understand what's been going on, and where Mr. Dunsmore fits into it all."

The solicitor consulted her elegant Rolex. "I have a court appointment in half an hour," she said with a pleasant smile. "Would it be possible to defer the rest of the interview until early this evening?"

Reid and Boydeau exchanged exasperated and astonished looks. It was almost unheard of for legal representatives to desert their clients mid-interview like this. However, there was nothing illegal or inappropriate about it, although Reid made a mental note that if she tried this again he wouldn't be so understanding.

"I suppose if you have a previous engagement, there's nothing else for it," he sighed, a note of disapproval in his voice.

"I do apologise," said Miss Kowalewska to all three of them, as she slipped her pad and pen back into her attaché case. She stood up and tossed back her wavy raven hair as if she was in a shampoo advert, and Boydeau suddenly realised what Miss Kowalewska reminded her of: a model.

"I assure you," the solicitor continued, "that I will return here as soon as the court case is concluded. Good afternoon." She catwalked out of the interview room and, obviously familiar with the terrain, made her way back to the front office, with considerable interest from all the male officers en route.

Boydeau had Dunsmore returned to his guest accommodation, and came back to the interview room to discover Reid was still sitting there, deep in thought, absentmindedly drumming his fingers on the table.

"Penny for 'em," she said, leaning against the door frame.

"I'm still trying to figure out where she came from." Reid paused, then rose to his feet decisively and said, "Let's set Leo and Claire on her and see if they can work their magic again."

**********

"There's something not right here, sarge." Even through the distortion of the police radio the mystification in Jordan's voice was clear. "She's not going anywhere near any court."

Reid and Boydeau exchanged glances across Danielle's desk as Reid spoke into the radio from his end. "Stay on her, Claire, and let us know as soon as you've got an idea of what's happening." He put down the receiver and paced the room irritably. "This stinks," he announced after a few moments. "Some glamour-puss we've never heard of, who's way beyond Dunsmore's pocket…"

"… and who he's never seen in his life before to judge from the look on his face when she walked into the room…" put in Sheila.

"… turns up for the interview, and the minute it looks as if we're going to get him to cough up, she finds an excuse to stop things in their tracks." He stopped pacing and leaned both fists on the table, bowing his head frustratedly. "Come on, come on…" he muttered under his breath.

As if in answer to a prayer, Claire Jordan's voice crackled from the speaker. "Sarge, she's gone to a house in Illingworth Avenue. Just seen her park in the driveway and let herself in the front door. And there's someone else in there – a bloke. Looks like it's her house and he was waiting there for her."

Danielle picked up the receiver, glanced at Reid, who hadn't moved, and handed it to Boydeau.

"Got that, Claire. Hang on a second." Boydeau said hurriedly. She handed the receiver to Danielle and looked over at her boss. "Sarge?"

Reid slowly raised his head. "I'm not messing about," he said. "Get a shout out to a couple of cars and let's get over there. We need to know what she's doing and who's in the house. Tell them it's a suspected robbery. Come on."

He took off for the door, Sheila hard on his heels, leaving Danielle issuing rapid instructions.

**********

Boydeau rang the doorbell of 85 Illingworth Avenue and stepped back from the porch. Reid glanced around the front garden of the large detached house, taking in the carefully manicured lawns and flower beds. Leo Gent and Clare Jordan had made their way round to the rear of the property to waylay any potential escapees.

The door finally opened, and Miss Kowalewska's composure disappeared in a nanosecond, her mouth agape.

Somewhat superfluously, Reid flashed his warrant card and announced, "DS Reid, Northcote CID, Miss Kowalewska. May we come in?"

Wordlessly, the woman stepped aside and waved them through, just as a slightly out-of-breath DC Jordan came jogging round the side of the house. Reid turned round expectantly as she arrived at the doorstep.

The expression on Jordan's face was unreadable. "Sarge, Leo's got a suspect who tried to leg it round the back, but he's not for coming quietly. I think you'd better..." She tailed off as Reid sprinted past her and met Gent coming through the side gate with a furious Detective Inspector Pyle.

"Sir?!" exclaimed Reid, incredulously.

"Reid! I might've known this dog's breakfast of an operation was down to you! Get your man to remove these!" The DI displayed his handcuffed wrists, and Reid was suddenly aware of a goggle-eyed Boydeau at his back. "Sheila, please take Miss Kowalewska into the house and wait for me there," he ordered. To Leo Gent, he said, "Undo those cuffs at once, constable."

Pyle rounded on the unfortunate Gent. "You just made the worst cock-up of your career, son! Consider yourself on desk duties until further notice!" Reid held up his hand to indicate that Leo should stay put for the moment.

"Let's get this cleared up before we go flying off the handle at anyone, shall we?" he said calmly. He noticed the small huddle of attending officers at the garden gate and realised that reports of the incident were, by now, probably halfway round the nick. He dismissed them with his thanks and they started to return to their cars, looking rather disappointed that they would miss the rest of whatever was occurring.

Pyle still looked as if he was about to self-combust. "Inside, sir, I think," suggested Reid.

They had hardly entered the living room when Pyle turned on Reid. "What on earth were you up to, you idiot? What the hell are you doing here?" he bawled in Reid's face.

Taking a step back, Reid said unemotionally, "I think you should have a seat, sir. Please calm down." This only had the opposite effect.

"Calm down? Why should I bloody calm down? I've just been chased and handcuffed like some lairy chav on the Petershill! I'll have that boy's guts for garters..."

Unexpectedly, Miss Kowalewska rose from where she was sitting, stood beside Pyle, and completely freaked Boydeau and Reid out by commencing to stroke the DI's hand. "Jonathan, be careful; your blood pressure," she said with concern.

Her actions had the desired effect. She was able to lead Pyle to a sofa and they sat down together. Sheila suppressed the overwhelming urge she had to run from the room and be violently sick. She looked sideways at Reid, who also seemed to be finding it a challenge to maintain his composure, and was studiously avoiding eye contact with Sheila.

"There's obviously been some kind of breakdown in communication," continued Miss Kowalewska. "Jonathan came round to visit me, and was out in the garden when you arrived. For some reason, your officer mistook him for a burglar and detained him." She turned to Pyle and said, "It was a genuine misunderstanding, Jonathan, I'm sure. No harm done."

Reid cleared his throat before speaking. "Miss Kowalewska...," he began.

"Please, sergeant, call me Renata."

Reid's eyes widened a little and he hesitated. "....Renata. Well, as you say, there appears to have been some confusion. We were under the impression you were in court this afternoon."

Renata gave a dazzling smile, showing her polished teeth (more adverts, thought Boydeau glumly), and without any sign of hesitation lied right through them. "I received a call just after I left you to say that my meeting had been postponed till next week, so I came straight home to freshen up and prepare for Mr. Dunsmore's interview."

Pyle looked increasingly uncomfortable. He put a hand on Renata's arm and spoke to her in a low voice: "I think I should go now. Call me when you have a minute." He stood up to leave. "I'll see _you_ in a couple of days," he told Reid ominously as he went, and within a minute they could hear a car outside roaring off, tyres squealing.

"I didn't realise you knew the DI so well," smiled Sheila to Miss Kowalewska.

"We're good friends." The pearly whites returned, and Renata got to her feet. "And now, I must get ready. Shall I see you in about an hour's time?"

"Miss Kowalewska, can I ask you what your connection is with Mr. Dunsmore?" said Reid out of the blue, catching her off guard once again.

"Why, I'm his solicitor, of course," she said, rather too brightly.

"Yes, indeed," said Reid, patiently. "But how did he come to be your client?" He could almost see her struggling for an answer, and when it came, it came with a chill.

"I don't think that's any of your business, sergeant. And now, if you don't mind..." They were effectively dismissed as she stood up and walked to the door.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

"Damn and blast and bugger it!" Reid slammed his fist against the steering wheel as they sat in the car outside Miss Kowalewska's house.

Boydeau waited for the storm to abate. She knew how much it had cost him to stay in control while Pyle was raging at him, Renata lying to his face. Reid slumped back against the headrest, eyes closed, teeth gritted. Sheila wound down her window and looked out at the hedgerow beside her.

Finally he said, "Belt up and let's get out of here. I don't want to be around when she comes out, she might report us to the Chief Constable." He started the engine and gunned away from the kerb.

Sheila grinned as she buckled up, and asked, "So what did you make of all that?"

Reid blew out his cheeks and said, "Where d'you want me to start?! Do you mean Pyle, Miss Kowalewska, or both?"

"Definitely both, sarge. I mean, a blind man running for his life could see that they're an item. 'Good friends' my..."

Reid sounded his horn as a white van cut him up on a roundabout, obliterating what Boydeau thought of the unlikeliest couple since Michael Jackson and anybody else.

"For a start," said Reid, "she's as bent as a corkscrew. Someone's parachuted her in to try and limit any damage Dunsmore might do. I think we need to send somebody round to Stafford's offices to find out what happened there. And then there's Pyle. He may well be having it off with her – certainly can't fault him on taste, though I wonder about hers – but there's definitely something else going on there. He was so edgy I thought he was going to wear a hole in the sofa."

"And what about his 'compassionate leave'? D'you think that's some kind of euphemism?" asked Sheila, her voice laden with amused sarcasm.

Reid cackled evilly as they drove into the station yard. He parked the car and turned off the ignition, but remained behind the wheel of the car for a moment as a thought seemed to creep up on him. "I wonder what Mrs. Pyle thinks he's up to?" he conjectured.

"Sarge! You wouldn't...," gasped Sheila, alarmed.

"Not now, perhaps, but I wouldn't rule it out. Come on, let's get upstairs and see who we can spare on enquiries."

Preoccupied with the day's twists and revelations, neither of them had realised how time had been pressing on and both were startled to find CID all but deserted when they arrived in the office.

"Looks like further investigations into Mr Stafford and his colleagues are curtailed till tomorrow morning," Reid said, belatedly looking at his watch. "Let's knock it on the head for tonight, Sheila. There'll be no chance of Empey being here before then anyway."

Sheila crossed to her desk and checked her e-mail, then began shutting down her computer. "I'm really struggling with this lot, sarge," she admitted. "Every time it looks like we've got an answer we find three more questions. I feel like I'm looking into a kaleidoscope."

Reid leaned against the doorframe and scrubbed his hands wearily across his face. "We'll get there," he said, almost convincingly. "To take the glass-half-full stance, at least we're not short of leads to follow. And this time tomorrow we'll have had a good go at Frank Empey."

Boydeau picked up her bag from the top of the desk and they clattered back down the stairs side by side. "It'll all look different after a few hours sleep, I suppose."

"I bloody hope so!" Reid was rummaging reflexively in his pocket as they emerged onto the car-park and paused at the foot of the steps to light up and draw a long, luxurious in-breath. As the smoke plumed out into the evening air, a thought occurred to him. "We should call on Jill Ainslie. Let her know her Tom's death was accidental."

"I'll go round there." Sheila saw the glint of relief in her boss's eyes. "It's on my way home anyway."

************

He knew exactly what Boydeau meant about the case, Reid reflected as he drove home by the scenic route. Questions, half-answers, suspicions and theories jostled in his brain like chunks of melting pack-ice and he was sure there was far more to emerge from below the surface. Sunk in his thoughts he drove almost on autopilot, and was sourly amused when he realised that he'd taken the road that lead past the south-western boundary of the woods where Tom Ainslie had died. Clearly his subconscious wasn't about to let him get away with leaving Sheila to run the errand to Mrs Ainslie.

Parking the Mondeo in a lay-by he climbed out and propped himself against the bonnet, staring across the common at the last of the light dying on the horizon. The air was so still that the smoke from his cigarette rose almost vertically into the violet sky, and with the shoulder of the hill damping down the bass rumble of the city it was an oddly peaceful spot. He remained there for some time, letting the melancholy tranquility of the place seep into his soul.

The images that had tumbled through his dreams the night before resurfaced slowly as the day's chaos ebbed away, and he let them come. It seemed appropriate, standing here, to let Tom Ainslie's forlorn ghost roam his thoughts for a time. He could recall only fragments of the dream, though he had the vague impression that there had been an entire narrative in which the events in the quarry behind him during the previous week and those of ten months ago in Denton were meshed into a tangled whole, and in which he was alternately himself and Tom Ainslie…

…_falling through green forest light to land on a cold tiled floor… smelling dank earth and seeing puddles of water and the bottom of a cracked enamel sink… hearing the rush of wind in the leaves far away and the boys' voices over his head: "He's well out of it. How much is in his wallet?"… _

The last image, the one that had woken him up and which he had stayed awake to avoid seeing again, was of himself and Sheila leaning out over the lip of the quarry, clutching the supporting branch, and staring down at the figure below. But this time it wasn't Tom Ainslie, but Reid's boy Danny, cold and pale and still.

The shudder that ran over him was nothing to do with the damp evening air, and he threw the end of his cigarette on the gravel and ground it out fiercely with his foot, scuffing the stones as if he could rub the picture out of his head at the same time. He still owed Jill Ainslie an explanation of why her son had been at Fairfax Road that afternoon. And that explanation depended on finding out who had sent Gordon McVey to scare Dunsmore out of the house and get the book of contacts out of the dining-room drawer. Who - and why. Reid had the feeling that Frank bloody Empey would have the answer to both those questions, and tomorrow he was going to rattle it out of him.

Climbing back into the car he put his headlights on and nosed out onto the dark road. Suddenly hungry, and not in the mood for solitude, he remembered that there was a good kebab shop not far from his flat where they would let him eat at the table in the corner and provide him with a look at the paper and some desultory chat in return for him glaring balefully at any drunks with disruptive intentions. And the chilli sauce was pretty good. He headed for civilization, leaving the wood to its ghosts.

**********

Boydeau was waiting outside the door when he pulled up in the staff car-park the next morning and she walked across to meet him. "Empey's here. Arrived in the early hours of the morning, so we can start whenever you like."

"How was Mrs Ainslie?" he asked her.

"Okay, as it goes." She pulled a face. "Angry, holding it together, got a lot of questions."

Her voice sounded weary and he looked at her sideways as they headed for the building. "You okay?"

"Tired. Didn't sleep very well."

Reid felt a sharp twinge of guilt. This case had resonances and associations for Sheila as well as for himself, and he shouldn't have let her go to Jill Ainslie's alone. "Got some evidence for you," he said, producing a crumpled packet from his pocket.

Unfolding it, she stared down at a wrapper which proclaimed that it had recently been the container for a scotch egg, then blinked up at her boss. "And this would be evidence of…"

"Breakfast!" he announced proudly.

"You…" the wrapper was slapped back into his palm "…are disgusting!" But she was smiling.

He bestowed his most evil smirk upon her and held the door open with a flourish.

"Empey's brief's here," hissed Gryff as they crossed through reception.

"Not another one," groaned Reid.

"No, same one," Gryff retorted, pointing his pen at the waiting Mr. Stafford.

"He wasn't here when I came through earlier," Boydeau said from just by his shoulder. "He must have slithered in the front while I was waiting for you."

"Spare me!" Reid muttered, and then raised his voice. "Right, Mr. Stafford, shall we get going then?" he asked wearily. "Sheila, nip up and get the troops in gear, then meet me in room 5."

"Righto, sarge." She hurried up the stairs as Reid showed Stafford through to the interview area.

"So, you're not representing father and son, then?" Reid stated rather than asked the brief.

There was an awkward silence, and then Stafford replied, "I felt it would be a conflict of interests under the circumstances. Mr. Dunsmore agreed to make alternative arrangements."

Reid suppressed a laugh at this whopper and opened the door to the interview room. Matt McGowan brought Empey along and Reid realised with a start that the latter looked as though he'd just swum the English Channel and run from the coast. He appeared utterly worn out and dispirited. Stafford also noticed his demeanour and exclaimed, "Good grief, is this man in any fit state to be interviewed?"

"I must say I have my doubts," answered Reid, to the solicitor's surprise. "PC McGowan, I think the prisoner could do with a visit from the police medical officer. Contact the duty doctor and arrange that, will you?"

McGowan nodded and scarpered off to obey, and Reid said, "Let's get you back to your cell in the meantime, Mr. Empey." He had taken the man by the elbow to escort him to the custody area, when Stafford muttered, "Where's the back door?"

"Eh?" asked Reid, bewildered, and suddenly realised that the solicitor was holding a small 9mm pistol in his hand. It was pointed at Reid's waist.

The adrenalin kicked in, crystallising every millisecond into perfect clarity, and bizarrely, the first thing he thought of was that Sheila would be arriving from CID any second now. He had to get this pillock out of the building. "This way," he said, and led both Empey and Stafford through the custody suite, unnoticed by PC McGowan, who was busy on the phone to the doctor, or Sergeant Powling, who was checking the other cells' occupants.

Reid punched in the access code to the back door, it clicked and swung open, and they all walked out into the yard. Reid stopped. "This is as far as I go," he told Stafford impassively. The brief stared hard at him. "This is it," repeated Reid. "On you go. Take him with you if you must." Empey seemed ready to collapse. "Only you'll be responsible for whatever happens to him, and he's not a well man, as you can see."

Stafford hesitated, wavering. Reid didn't give an inch. Empey suddenly lurched and fell, almost crumpling to the ground before Reid caught him, whereupon Stafford swore viciously and got off his mark, pelting away across the car-park. Reid, staggering under Empey's dead weight, managed to drag the unconscious man back inside, then reached up a free hand and hit the panic button.

**********

The ambulance whooped out of the police yard, taking Frank Empey to hospital, guarded by a suitably chastened PC McGowan. The nine mil had been collected by SO15, although the senior officer, Sergeant Hadley, was an old acquaintance of Reid's and couldn't resist a dig.

"You planning on providing us with work single-handed, Tel? How many's that? Two dozen AK-100s, and now this!" He dangled the pistol, encased in its evidence bag, in front of Reid's disgruntled face.

"Yes, very droll. Haven't you lot got homes to go to?" came the answer.

"Haven't _you_ lot got suspects to question? Oh, wait, no..." Hadley swiftly removed himself from the custody area as Reid took a warning step towards him.

"Cheeky git." Reid turned to see Sheila standing in the doorway of the interview corridor. He hadn't had a moment to speak to her since all hell had let loose. He mentally shook himself in order to get his focus back on what was left of the investigation. He had to admit it didn't look a whole lot like it had when they'd started out.

"Right, well, I suppose that explains Stafford's role in all of this. Seems pretty clear where his loyalties lie," he said blisteringly.

Sheila was silent for a few seconds, then asked, "Sarge, are you OK? I mean, it's not every day you get threatened at gunpoint in your own nick."

"I've had worse happen, Sheila. Gasping for a fag, though – care to join me?"

He was pretty certain that the sight of Stafford's pudgy face staring up at him and the sweaty hand clamped on the revolver wasn't one of the images that would be haunting his dreams; quite what this said about his psyche he wasn't entirely sure. What he could do with right now was a few minutes breathing space to organise his hurtling thoughts, well away from anyone who might be bearing more spanners.

They finished up buying a couple of packs of sandwiches from the canteen and going for a walk around the small park opposite the police station, where Reid's cigarettes drew a few irritated glares from mothers with pushchairs. Sheila, walking on the side away from the smoke, tipped her head back and stared up at the clouds as if searching for inspiration from on high.

"I know we had our suspicions about Stafford, sarge, but this was _not_ what I had in mind. I'd give six months' salary to know who's behind this whole thing," she mused aloud.

"Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it," came the rejoinder.

"Oddly enough, though, Miss Kowalewska failed to appear for her appointment at Dunsmore's interview this afternoon," Boydeau went on. "It's almost as if..."

"...she knew what was going to happen," finished Reid. "Well, shall we pay her another visit?"

"I really don't think my stomach could stand the sight of her and Haemorrhoids crawling all over each other," answered Sheila, somewhat queasily.

"Somehow I get the feeling that the DI will be making himself scarce under the circumstances," Reid surmised, hurriedly hiding his latest smoke from a disapproving yummy mummy.

Boydeau drew back, her brows furrowed. "I don't get it," she said bluntly.

Reid indicated a bench under some trees, and they walked over and sat down. He hunched forward, leaning on his knees. Sheila opened the sandwiches and set up an impromptu picnic on the bench between them.

Reid was thinking aloud: "Where did Miss Kowalewska come from? Stafford told me that Dunsmore had agreed to dispense with his services due to a 'conflict of interests', and find another brief. But we both know Dunsmore was expecting Stafford to walk into that interview room. So… I reckon that whoever's working them from the back arranged for Kowalewska to turn up and, if necessary, leave Dunsmore hanging out to dry. Somebody's trying to stop things from getting any messier than they already are." He took a last drag, flicked the dog-end into a nearby litter bin and picked up a sandwich, eyeing it suspiciously.

Realisation dawned on Sheila. "Sarge...are you saying that you think DI Pyle might somehow be mixed up in this, with Miss Kowalewska?"

Reid didn't respond at first, as if by not voicing his fears he was somehow preventing them from becoming reality. "Sarge?" prompted Boydeau.

He sat back, finishing the sandwich, still mulling it over as he spoke. "He was as nervous as hell at her place earlier on."

"But that might only be because we caught him with his hand in the cookie jar."

"I thought so, too, at first," agreed Reid. "But it could just as easily be because he's involved in...well, some aspect of the case." He paused again, weighing up what he was going to say next. "In a way that he shouldn't be."

"You reckon he's taking bungs?" Boydeau whistled and shook her head. "I don't think you should go there, sarge. I mean, what if you're totally off track?" She paused and then added, hopefully, "What if he's actually working the case from the inside, _posing_ as a bent cop?"

Reid raised his eyebrows and automatically felt for his lighter and a cigarette. "That, I hadn't thought of. In which case, the DCI would know, wouldn't he?"

Now it was Boydeau's turned to look surprised. "You really feel that's wise?" she asked.

"If you have a better suggestion, now would be a good time to share it," replied Reid wryly. He held out the second pack of sandwiches to her, and she shook her head.

"Suddenly I'm not really all that hungry."

"Now I _know_ it's serious," deadpanned Reid. He put the sandwiches on her lap and stood up, giving her an encouraging slap on the shoulder as he did so. "Come on…"

It was obscurely comforting to Sheila that, even as he was proposing ideas that were tipping her whole view of the world askew, Reid could still sound as though he was eager to be pushing things forward and to hell with the consequences. Putting the sandwiches in her bag for later, she hurried to catch him up.

**********

"I wish I could tell you that your assumption that DI Pyle is working undercover was correct," sighed Brocklehurst, getting up from behind his desk and pacing in front of the picture window. The bonhomie had evaporated from his manner like mist in a July heatwave as he'd listened to what his DS had to say. He turned and fixed Reid with an acerbic stare, and the sergeant suddenly knew that anything bad that happened from this point onwards would be his fault by association. He could also see the promised promotion galloping off over the horizon.

"However," the DCI went on, "as far as I'm aware, DI Pyle is genuinely on compassionate leave after his wife's mother passed the other day. He's booked off duty until next week at the earliest." He frowned and paused in his pacing. "But you say you met him today at the home of this woman...Koffa..." BB waved his hand around, as if trying to conjure the unfamiliar name out of thin air.

"Kowalewska," provided Reid, helpfully.

"Quite. And how did he explain his presence there?" asked BB.

"He didn't, at least not to my satisfaction. Miss Kowalewska claimed that they were 'just good friends,' and that the DI was 'visiting' her, but both myself and DC Boydeau observed that they were on fairly intimate terms – first names, hand-holding, that sort of thing."

Brocklehurst's face was like thunder but all he said was, "Anything else you can tell me?"

"Well, the DI was clearly very uncomfortable at our being there. He eventually excused himself from the house and drove off at a rate of knots. Miss Kowalewska herself was quite evasive when questioned about her relationship with the suspect, Paul Dunsmore – and _he_ couldn't have been more shocked if Perry Mason had turned up to represent him."

"I see." There was silence for almost a minute, and just as Reid thought Brocklehurst had been permanently struck dumb, he was dismissed with, "That'll be all for just now, Reid. But keep me informed."

**********

First stop, the gents', for a splash in the face of cold water, which Reid realised was becoming his new habit in place of a stiff whisky. Better for the liver, at any rate. _Why the hell does this feel like it's all my fault? It's hardly down to me if Pyle's on the take. _Reid realised the irony of the fact that he had taken an instant dislike to the man, but took comfort in the thought that the DCI hadn't suspended him on the spot for proposing such an outrageous theory. That in itself had pretty much confirmed his suspicions about Pyle. He hadn't been instructed not to tell Boydeau, though, so he made his way to the CID office and beckoned her into his room.

"Looks like I was right," he stated baldly.

"Good Gordon Bennett." Sheila sat down, gobsmacked.

"It's a tough thing to come to terms with, that you've been working with a bent copper," Reid sympathised.

"Happened to you before, I take it?" she asked.

"A DC in my first CID posting, at Southwark, was caught taking backhanders from the local drug baron." Reid plumped himself down at his desk and looked thoroughly depressed.

"What will the DCI do now?" wondered Boydeau.

"He'll be calling CIB as we speak, I should imagine, having had a stiff brandy first." Reid gave a heavy sigh and swung round in his chair to look out of the window. "I don't know where to go from here. Empey's in A&E, Stafford's in the wind, and Dunsmore hasn't a scooby what's going on."

Sheila looked at the slump of his shoulders. It was her turn to take the strain, she decided. "We've still got Toffolo."

"I'm pretty sure we've had all out of him that we're going to get," said Reid, resignedly.

"He's still in custody, so he'll have no idea what's happened, aside from having heard the alarm go off," pointed out Boydeau. "Why don't we haul him back into the interview room and tell him we know about Stafford and Empey – maybe even Pyle, see if he bites - and that if he wants to save himself and his son from going down for a lot longer, he should be completely honest with us."

"That'll be a novelty," grunted Reid, hands behind his head, still gazing down into the station forecourt.

"But worth a try, surely, sarge. It has to be better than sitting about here waiting for the other shoe to drop."

There was a long pause, during which Sheila stared at the back of her boss's head expectantly. Then Reid span round, lifted the phone and said, "Herbert? Bring the Scarlet Pimpernel to interview room 4." He hung up, stood up, and took a final swig from his coffee mug. "Right," he said with grim determination. "Let's get on with it."


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

Toffolo looked askance at the young man Sheila was bringing into the interview room.

"Who's this when he's at home?" he challenged.

"This is Mr. Lee, he's the duty solicitor, and he's going to be representing you in light of recent developments – or until you nominate another solicitor," answered Sheila crisply.

The surly "Cornishman" folded his arms with a defiant air and retorted, "Mr. Stafford's my brief, and I'm not saying nothing without him present."

"Then you'll be saying a whole lot of nothing because Mr. Stafford is no longer available," Reid responded, unsurprised at Toffolo's reluctance to co-operate. Seeing his interviewee's sceptical expression, he elaborated, "Mr. Stafford is currently being sought on charges of presenting a weapon with illegal possession of a firearm, threatening a police officer, and anything else we can think of throwing at him, up to and including attempted murder."

"You're just making all that up," replied Toffolo with deep scorn. He indicated Mr. Lee. "And _he's_ just another one of your stooges."

"Mr. Toffolo," said Reid, his patience running out, "do you want to return to your cell? Or would you rather sit here and trawl through the Yellow Pages looking for another brief? Mr. Stafford is on the run after trying to abduct your former boss at gunpoint, and were we to locate him I can assure you the last thing we'd let him do would be to represent you. Is there someone else you would rather we called?" Toffolo remained truculently silent, although he seemed to be considering Reid's words. "No? Then let's get on with this interview."

Mr. Lee, who had been hovering uncertainly near the door, now took his place beside Toffolo and announced, "I think it would be only fair if I..."

"Yes, yes, five minutes with your client," Reid said, raising his hand to stop the solicitor in mid-spiel. "Sheila?" He gestured for her to precede him from the room.

"Ever get the feeling we've done this before?" she murmured as they waited in the corridor.

"Only all the time. Well, at least they're searching all visitors to the station now. By next week there'll probably be a metal detector at the front door. Ah, that was quick," finished Reid, as Mr. Lee opened the door and beckoned them back into the interview room. The solicitor's next words could not have surprised them more.

"Mr. Toffolo wishes to make a statement," he announced.

"Er, right, well, let's just get it all on tape," Sheila almost spluttered in suppressed amazement. She switched on the recorder and once the introductions had been dispensed with, she said, "Mr. Toffolo, you wish to say something?"

Grudgingly, but with the dawning realisation that there was no way out of his predicament, Toffolo said, "Yeah," then fell silent. Mr. Lee nodded encouragingly at him.

"OK, well, you lot probably know most of this by now so I don't know why I'm wasting my breath...all right, all right," he said, as his brief gave him a cautionary look. "Frank Empey was flogging guns out of the cash and carry. He forced my Paul to stash some of them at my place, though they didn't see fit to tell me about it. If they had, things would've been different, I can tell you..."

Seeing that Toffolo was about to launch into a diatribe about life's injustices, Reid asked, "Were any of the other Gold Star staff involved in this gun running operation?"

"Nah. Thick as mince, most of them. 'Specially that receptionist bird. She didn't half have the hots for Frank..."

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Toffolo, I don't think that's really relevant," interrupted Boydeau, feeling her hackles rising. She had felt quite sorry for Julie Ellis in the end.

"So none of the other workers there knew anything about it?" continued Reid.

"Nope. Just me, Empey, and my Paul."

"And how much money were you making out of this?"

Toffolo's eyebrows went up. "Frank was clearing five grand a month at one point, so we was doing all right."

_Five k? _thought Reid. _And the rest. Empey apparently didn't choose Toffolo for his financial acumen._ Aloud, he said, "Who were the guns being sold to?"

"Local yardies, as well as a couple of firms in the East End – oh, and a mob from Newcastle. Frank only dealt with them once, though, said they tried to rip him off. And they were well scary, too. You getting all this down, girlie?" he leered at Sheila, who was taking notes. She smiled insincerely at him as she carried on writing.

"And how did you find these buyers?" Reid asked.

Toffolo hesitated, but Reid and Boydeau resisted the urge to jump in and prompt him. Now that he'd started to talk so freely, he was unlikely to stop until it was all out. If they were patient they would get a result.

"Frank had contacts," was the eventual reply. "Knew folk, didn't he? Little black book."

"Ah yes, the book..." Reid produced the original Fairfax Road notebook from his evidence folder, and had the satisfaction of seeing Toffolo's eyes nearly drop out of their sockets and bounce off the table. He thumbed through the notebook and said, "It contains names, numbers, and financial transactions, all sales of course - but makes no mention of where the information was actually coming _from_, if you get my drift."

Sheila leaned forward. "Mr. Toffolo, your son Paul has been very helpful so far. However, he was obviously lower down the pecking order," - she narrowly avoided saying "food chain" - "than you, so he wasn't able to give us much more information than you already have. That's why we're speaking to you. You must have been aware of who Mr. Empey was working with." She was very careful not to say "working _for_," lest she give any premature hint of what they already suspected, especially about Pyle.

Toffolo shrugged. "If anyone else was involved, I never saw them," he said, and Reid's every sense bristled, as it sometimes did, at The Big Lie. Suppressing his desire to punch the air and shout "Yesss!", he continued to carefully tease it out of Toffolo.

"So you and Frank Empey, working independently of anyone else, sold these guns to a variety of crime organisations. Right?"

He could see Toffolo's eyes glazing over as he struggled to work out whether, by agreeing to Reid's summary of the facts, he would be dropping himself right in it. Lee, too, noticed his quandary, and had a hurried whispered consultation with his client.

Finally, Toffolo said, in a carefully measured, almost rehearsed, monotone, "Frank Empey sold them guns, not me."

"Come on, Mr. Toffolo," said Sheila, sounding amused. "You helped him. 'Aiding and abetting,' it's called, as I'm sure you know. I don't think a judge will look very favourably on someone who assisted his boss in spreading death and destruction around England."

Toffolo looked terrified out of his wits. "Who said anything about death and destruction?" he yelped.

Reid sighed and said, "Automatic weapons, Mr. Toffolo. What did you think they were for? Morris dancing?" Moving in for the kill, he went on, "You will find, I think, that things will work out much better if you can point us in the direction of whoever supplied Frank Empey with those guns or put him in contact with his customers. Think about it." He laid his hands firmly on the table, then got up, motioned to Sheila, and declared, "Time for a break, I think. PC Lemon!" he called to the young constable at the door, "Kindly escort Mr. Toffolo back to his cell." To Sheila, under his breath, he said, "Fiver says he doesn't last ten minutes."

_**************_

Boydeau was five pounds worse off as Reid re-commenced the interview. "Well, Mr. Toffolo, have you had a chance to think about it?"

Mr. Lee gestured at Toffolo as if to say, "On you go".

"Empey was working for someone else." Toffolo chewed a fingernail nervously. "Some foreign bloke…Russian, I think."

"Name?" asked Reid tersely.

Toffolo put his head in his hands and leaned on the table for a few moments. He then sat back and said, "Koffoloffer or something like that. I dunno. He would say, 'I've had a call from Koffoloffer and there's another shipment coming in tonight," and me and Paul would go with him to meet this bloke."

"You saw him, then. Can you describe him?" Sheila asked.

"Not exactly _saw_ him, no. He stayed in his car while his muscle got the boxes over to us."

"What did the 'muscle' look like?" persevered Boydeau.

"Scrawny geezer, about my height. Late forties, I'd say. Dark hair, but losing it. Wore glasses."

Sheila realised that Toffolo had just described her DI to a tee. With a flash of inspiration, she asked, "What kind of car was Koffoloffer driving?"

The man narrowed his eyes at Boydeau as he heard his own pronunciation and realised it had been wrong, but he didn't mention it. Instead he said appreciatively, "Big silver Merc, C class. Nice car."

Sheila made a note on her pad and then turned to Reid. "I'll just be one moment, sir, if you'll excuse me." She kept her voice and face completely neutral. He nodded, just as cagily, and Sheila left the room with as much decorum as she could muster. Once out in the corridor, she legged it at top speed to the nearest computer and checked the DVLA database. Within two minutes she sat back down beside Reid and pushed a computer printout sheet to him. He read it, raised an eyebrow in approval, and spoke to Toffolo.

"Let me ask you about Mr. Stafford. How does he fit into all of this?"

Toffolo frowned. "I dunno really. He was with Empey in his office a few times when I was there." A sudden memory struck him. "I came home from work one day – you know, to my gaff in Fairfax Road – and Empey was there with Stafford and some posh woman. Tall dark-haired sort, well put-on, if you know what I mean."

Reid turned round the sheet Boydeau had given him and showed it to Toffolo. "Is this the woman you saw with Stafford?"

An expression of total surprise crossed the man's face. "Blimey, it _is _her!" He stared in wonder and awe at Reid, looking as if he had just witnessed either a superb conjuring trick or a divine miracle. Sheila had it confirmed to her, yet again, that criminals like Toffolo were very rarely clever, cunning, or well-informed. On the contrary, they were mostly stupid, lucky, or...wait...stupid.

"Right, Mr. Toffolo, I think we have everything we need now." Reid formally terminated the interview recording, and everyone except the prisoner stood up. Toffolo still looked somewhat stunned as Lemon took him back to the custody suite.

**********

"Top marks, Sheila," grinned Reid round his freshly-lit Rothmans. He withdrew it and blew triumphantly into the air.

"Just basic police work, sarge," replied Boydeau modestly, perching on a storage container in the station yard.

"Yeah, but getting her DVLA record _including_ the photograph from her driving licence was a definite stroke of genius. Well done." Reid was genuinely fond of his colleague, and seriously impressed by the way she'd handled this case so far. He found himself fantasising about his now-improbable elevation to Detective Inspector, and pondering on the possibility of taking Sheila with him when he took up a post at another station. Ah well, back to reality...

"Reid! Any news?" barked Brocklehurst, as he sallied forth to his car.

Reid hastily stubbed out his cigarette and answered, "Yes, sir, I was just on the point of coming to tell you" - which he genuinely had been - "that we've had a positive identification, from two months ago, of Miss Kowalewska with Stafford and Empey at the house in Fairfax Road, linking them all to the arms cache there."

"Well, what are you waiting for? Brighter days? Get round and arrest her!" ordered the DCI, whose mood had clearly not improved one iota.

"Yes, sir, we're waiting for a search warrant," answered Reid politely.

"Fine. Keep me apprised." Brocklehurst got into what had been dubbed his "Morsemobile" - a Mark 2 Jag – and drove out of the yard. Boydeau stared after him in astonishment. "I can't get over that. One of his DIs is on the point of being investigated, and he just swans off...?"

"There's a good chance he's been called in to Area to discuss it, Sheila," said Reid, gently.

Her horrified face told him that she hadn't even considered this possibility. "Let's go in and see if they've got that warrant yet," he suggested, in an attempt to distract her.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

The storming of Miss Kowalewska's home turned out to be a definite damp squib; she was, unsurprisingly, not in residence, and DI Pyle was nowhere to be seen, either. Once Reid and his team had determined that there was nobody on the premises, they forced the door of least resistance - the French windows - and carried out a search. Boydeau had also had the presence of mind to request a metal detector, lest there be any further secret hoards of guns to be found.

"Third time lucky, eh?" quipped Hadley from the front door, his unit having been called in as a matter of routine. Nick Lemon pulled a "don't start" face as he slowly scanned the hall floor with the detector, while Reid grunted but made no distinct comment as he searched a cupboard underneath the stairs.

Leo Gent appeared from outdoors. "What about the tool shed, sarge?" he asked.

"It's covered by the search warrant, isn't it?" answered Reid from the cupboard's depths, with more than a hint of impatience in his voice, at which Gent decamped to the garden.

"Nothing upstairs so far," reported Boydeau, coming down and crossing the hall into the kitchen. Reid withdrew his head from under the stairs and sighed in frustration, looking around for something to kick.

"Let's face it," he announced to no-one in particular, "she's probably too damn smart to keep anything as incriminating as firearms in her own home. That's what she has..." - he had been about to say "DI Pyle for", but managed to catch himself in time - "dogsbodies like Dunsmore for."

The stress drove Reid outside for a smoke and, he hoped, some time alone to clear his thoughts and see a way forward. Sheila, working in Miss Kowalewska's study, spotted him under the trees by the front wall, but resisted the temptation to join him, and carried on meticulously going through the reams of paper in the filing cabinet. As she pulled out the next drawer, she noticed some resistance, gave the handle a wrench and felt something hit her feet. Leaning around the drawer, she saw a book with a floral-patterned cover resting on the carpet.

Closing the cabinet, she bent down and picked up the notebook, and as she opened it, she was most gratified to find something that would mean their search had been worthwhile. She was surprised, though, that Miss Kowalewska had been remiss enough to leave behind such a personal, and potentially damaging, item as a diary. Maybe it was a form of insurance, meant for any curious person to find? A cursory glance through it told Boydeau that Pyle was in this up to his scrawny neck.

**********

Another day, another doorstep...Reid was starting to wonder if this case would ever straighten out and fly right. After Sheila's discovery of the previous evening he had made the decision, with the DCI's approval, to involve another, most likely innocent, person in the case.

As the door opened, he saw from the petite woman's face that this was the call every police officer's wife dreaded. He introduced himself and Boydeau, adding, "It's all right, Mrs. Pyle, as far as we know your husband's fine. We just need to have a word with you, if we could." He hated himself for saying it; what might eventually transpire could be every bit as nasty as Pyle being injured in the line of duty, and not nearly as honourable.

Guilelessly, the woman invited Reid and Boydeau into her home. _She can't be any more than thirty_, thought Sheila. _Poor cow._

They were invited to sit on the rather worn chintzy sofa in the front room. Their eyes were drawn to the plethora of family photographs that adorned one entire wall. Mrs. Pyle saw their interest and shone with maternal pride. "That's Alex, he's ten now...and that's Amy and Sally, when they won the junior doubles...and Kieran, he's the baby – although he'll kill me for saying that, he's nearly seven!"

Reid smiled kindly. "Looks like you've got your hands full there!" he said.

The DI's wife returned the smile. "I wouldn't have it any other way. They're the most important thing in my life." She sat down on the edge of an armchair, looking a little tired. "So, how can I help you? Oh, where are my manners? Would you like some tea or coffee?"

"No need, Mrs. Pyle, we're fine," replied Reid, then dived in. "We were sorry to hear about your mother." He was 99% certain that the story about Pyle's mother-in-law dying was fictitious, but for the moment he had to play along with the official reason for the DI's absence from work.

Sure enough, Mrs. Pyle looked completely baffled. "I'm sorry?" she said, as if she thought she had misheard him.

"Your husband told us that he was taking time off work because your mother had passed away," explained Reid as gently as he could.

The woman recoiled in shock. "What?!" she gasped, alarmed. "My mother is fit and well and living in Beaconsfield!" She stared, now hostile, at the pair sitting on her sofa. "Let me see your warrant cards!" she demanded, and Reid and Boydeau complied.

"I can assure you, Mrs. Pyle, this isn't some kind of practical joke," Reid continued. "We were genuinely under the impression that you had suffered a bereavement. Your husband's been on compassionate leave since last week."

Her eyes narrowed. "He told _me_ he was away on an important case up north," she said slowly, "and that he wouldn't be back till this coming Friday." There was the most awkward silence imaginable, broken by Sheila asking carefully: "Would you know a Miss Renata Kowalewska?"

As before, the unusual name defeated the hearer. "I've never even heard the name," replied Mrs. Pyle. "Who is she?"

Reid felt unbelievably sorry for the woman, and took the unusual step of answering an interviewee's question. "She's a solicitor who sometimes works at Northcote police station, Mrs. Pyle. Perhaps your husband might have mentioned her in connection with a case he's worked on...a suspect he's interviewed?" Before she even opened her mouth to reply, both Reid and Boydeau knew the gist of what was coming next.

"Jon never discusses work at home. It's our rule: no shop talk. When he's here, he's a hundred percent for me and the kids. We made that decision when we were first married. It helps him leave his worries at the door and relax when he's off-duty."

Reid nodded, understandingly. "I appreciate that, Mrs. Pyle. Could I ask you to show us where your husband keeps his paperwork and so forth?"

The woman stood up and led them into the hall, then stopped and turned to face them. "Don't you need a search warrant for this?" she asked, frowning.

"We can get one, if that's what you'd prefer," answered Reid. "But it simply means that we'll be waiting about here for it, and end up carrying out the search just the same. However, it's up to you."

Mrs. Pyle hesitated, realised that it was only deferring the inevitable, and showed them a large walk-in cupboard that obviously served as her husband's storage room. Sheila saw the cracks in the woman's demeanour starting to appear as Reid began to investigate the contents of a set of drawers, and said, "I could do with that cup of tea now, Mrs. Pyle." She followed their hostess into the kitchen, leaving Reid to his search.

"I really don't understand what's going on." The blonde woman, looking frail and shaken, turned from the kettle to Sheila. "What exactly is it that you expect to find? Has Jon done something wrong?" A horrifying thought suddenly hit her. "The children will be home for lunch at twelve! What am I going to tell them?" A note of panic edged its way into her voice, and Sheila strove to calm her down.

"We'll be finished by then, Mrs. Pyle, don't worry. DS Reid just wants a quick look around," she explained as comfortingly as was honest. At that moment, Reid entered the kitchen with a depressingly familiar-looking black notebook in his hand.

Mrs. Pyle took one look at it and declared, "If you're going to ask me if I've ever seen that before, the answer is no. I told you already, Jon keeps his work and family absolutely separate. I have no idea whether that book is his or not, or where it came from, or anything." Sheila felt that the "or anything" was probably overstating the case. Implausibly, a quote from a favourite TV show sprang unbidden into her mind: "Deny everything, Baldrick." She wondered if Mrs. Pyle _did_ know anything, or whether this was just her self-defence mechanism kicking in.

**********

It was most fortunate that as the Pyle children arrived at one end of the street, the police van carrying the contents of their father's storeroom was vanishing down the other. As Boydeau had promised, all was, on the face of it at least, back to normal in time for their return from school. She had also left her phone number and assured Mrs. Pyle of her personal attention at any time, day or night. Sheila could see the potentially disastrous future for the DI's wife, should their suspicions prove correct, and she couldn't stand the thought of the woman having to face it without any support from someone who understood what she was going through.

Back at the nick, Brocklehurst's barely-suppressed rage was manifesting itself in various petty and peculiar ways. Gryff had already been on the receiving end of an unprovoked outburst regarding the state of the reception area. The diggers had sat in stunned silence as they were subjected to a lecture on the correct police procedure regarding storage of umbrellas - the unfortunate DC Suzy Green had left hers propped up to dry near the office entrance, and Brocklehurst had lightly brushed against it as he came through the door. Mrs. Hollingbury and her catering staff were about to be treated to a similar tirade in respect of menu diversity, when Boydeau and Reid mis-timed their entry and inadvertently came to the rescue of the canteen ladies.

"You two, in my office, now!" bawled BB, upon seeing the officers, and strode off, scarcely bothering to open the doors on his way out.

A grateful Mrs. Hollingbury whispered, "Tea and buns on the house later, Tel," as he and Sheila passed her, en route to their fate.

Reid failed to see why Boydeau was being dragged into this; although he realised full well the reasons for the DCI's foul mood, he didn't think it fair if all his guv'nor was going to do was rant at him, and include Sheila just for the hell of it.

Once they were in Brocklehurst's office, Reid signalled subtly to Sheila to let him do any explaining that might be required, and to let him take the flak. He knew it was a big ask for someone as loyal as she was, but right now discretion was most definitely the better part of valour. He didn't want her caught up in any possible recriminations further down the line.

"What the hell has been going on in this station?!" Brocklehurst demanded, and without so much as a pause for an answer, carried on, "A solicitor with a gun tries to abduct a prisoner, one of my DIs is possibly corrupt, and you -" he indicated Reid with an accusing finger - "appear to be turning into a one-man weapons detector!" Reid found this ridiculously amusing, but managed to contain his laughter. Boydeau was not quite so successful.

"Do you find this situation funny, constable?" barked the DCI.

"No, sir." Sheila struggled to control herself. "Not at all."

"I should bloody well think not!" He turned to Reid. "What's the latest on the Polish woman and Pyle?"

"We've been round to Mr. Pyle's home, sir, and found a list of contacts and addresses that closely matches the ones owned by Empey and Toffolo. My team are going through those now. Mrs. Pyle," he forged on manfully when it looked as though Brocklehurst might butt in, "appears quite unaware of any improper actions on her husband's part. She maintains that they don't discuss police matters at all. We've seized his personal computer and a number of case files which, to my mind, should never have left this station."

"These were at his home?" asked Brocklehurst, slightly stunned.

"Yes, sir, the documents were in a drawer in his storage room. I might add that Mrs. Pyle is in a bit of a state about the situation, and DC Boydeau has left her phone number with her in the hope that she'll confide anything unusual that she might recall – or, indeed, if Mr. Pyle returns home."

"No sign of him, then, I take it?" The DCI appeared to be calming down in the face of some progress in the matter, despite the rapidly accelerating confirmation of Pyle's guilt.

"He told his wife that he would be away on police business 'up north' until Friday. Her mother is apparently alive and well and living in Buckinghamshire," responded Reid.

Brocklehurst's face clouded over again with anger. "So much for compassionate leave!" he stormed, clearly stung by the betrayal of so senior and trusted an officer.

"With your permission, sir, I think it might be prudent to put out an alert for Mr. Pyle. If he's realised we're onto him, there's a strong possibility..."

"...that he might make a run for it, yes, go ahead with that, Reid." Seemingly exhausted by his rage, Brocklehurst sank into the chair behind his desk and propped his head up with one hand. "That'll be all for the moment."

Reid and Boydeau made good their escape. Reid instructed Claire Jordan to make the necessary calls to try and intercept Pyle, then retreated to the refuge of his office, where a tray of tempting-looking pastries and a flask of hot tea awaited, courtesy of the canteen manageress. For the next half-hour, he and Boydeau talked over the case, ate and drank, and emerged with a definite plan of attack.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

"Excuse me?! You've already hinted very strongly that my husband is involved in something shady, you've put my children's home life in jeopardy by rummaging around here – and now you have the gall to ask if I'm willing to make a TV appeal for Jon to come home? You must be out of your tiny little minds." Mrs. Pyle turned the full burn of her glare on Reid, who sat opposite her in the Laura Ashley front room. "I shouldn't be surprised it's you – Jon never had anything good to say about your work," she added, with a vindictive spit at the end of the sentence.

Sheila was on her like a rottweiler. "You previously told us, quite categorically, that Detective Inspector Pyle _never_ discussed his work with you, yet you know his opinion about a colleague?"

Lisa Pyle knew when she was caught out. She clicked her tongue and looked away, at the family gallery on the wall.

"Mrs. Pyle..." Reid tried to bring her attention back to the question in hand. She turned to face him, and Boydeau and Reid were both stunned at the expression of unadulterated loathing in her eyes.

Her voice was almost a hiss. "I want you to leave my house right now." She closed her mouth and sat unflinching, staring at them in silence until the pair saw it was useless to remain. They let themselves out.

Safely on the garden path, Reid gave vent to an incredulous laugh. It was that, or tear the gate off its hinges. "I'll say this for her, she's got balls."

"Don't know that BB'll be much impressed by that explanation," retorted Sheila gloomily.

Appealing to Mrs Pyle had been pretty much their last throw of the dice on this one. Brocklehurst was getting itchy feet. The case which seemed to have been a ridiculous blizzard of activity almost from the moment they'd met up in the garden at Fairfax Road had dropped stone dead with Pyle's disappearance, the DI never having returned from his "compassionate leave".

In the week between their two visits to Lisa Pyle, Reid had found the time to have a toe-curlingly embarrassing conversation with Camille-the-counsellor and re-arrange the appointment which had completely slipped from his mind. They now had a new arrangement – he had a fresh appointment for the upcoming Saturday and she would contact him on Friday evening to ensure that it was still convenient. He wasn't looking forward to it any more than he had to the original one.

Dunsmore and Toffolo were both now on remand awaiting dates for their court appearances, while Empey was recuperating in hospital from what had turned out to be a heart attack. With the cash and carry burned to the ground and the three properties involved – four including the offices of Stafford & Jarvis – searched from loft to utility room, they were as sure as they could be that they had at least disrupted the arms ring and made life difficult for them.

Still, neither Reid nor Boydeau felt satisfied that the case had been properly put to bed. McVey, Stafford, Kowalewska and Pyle were all still unaccounted for, and with them had gone not only the satisfaction of a clean win, but also the possibility of fitting the last pieces of the puzzle together. Why had they driven Dunsmore out of Fairfax Road? Had they really only sent McVey for the book? And why had Tom Ainslie died? They knew the circumstance of his death but not the reason for it, and this in particular bothered them both.

They headed back to Northcote in silence, knowing that this latest setback might ultimately put the lid on the whole business.

**********

"We're still monitoring all the airports and ferry terminals, domestic _and_ international journeys, and..."

"Reid, for heaven's sake, shut up, man, I'm thinking." The DCI leaned back in his chair and looked up at the fluorescent light. Reid stood mute, waiting for the sound of the hammer banging the final nail into the coffin.

When Brocklehurst spoke again it was with resignation. "I think we're going to have to put this case on hold for the moment, sergeant. There have been two serious assaults and a robbery with violence in the last twelve hours alone, and you're tying up valuable personnel and resources to try and find a man who has in all probability left the country. Tell your team to stand down on this one."

Hiding his disappointment, Reid nodded, thanked the DCI, and went out into the corridor. He leaned his forehead against the wall and sighed deeply. He'd known it was coming, although that didn't make it any easier to swallow. A visit to the men's room was one option, but he was getting fed up with looking at his own reflection and thinking trippy thoughts; he decided to sound off to a real person, and one with better ideas than him. He made his way along to CID and scanned the room for Sheila.

"Anyone seen DC Boydeau?" he asked the nearest officer.

"Think she went to the canteen, sarge," replied Claire Jordan, two desks away.

"Thanks, tell her I want to see her when she gets back," said Reid in clipped tones. He turned abruptly and sought sanctuary in his office. The slam of his door could be clearly heard in the main office, resulting in a lot of eyebrow raising and even more speculation amongst the juniors.

Less than two minutes later, Sheila burst through the main office doors at top speed, alarming the rest of the troops and furnishing them with the next five minutes' gossip as she careered out again and crashed into Reid's office without knocking.

Reid looked up from writing up his notes, so angered by Brocklehurst's decision to pull the plug that he didn't trust himself to say anything.

Sheila was uncharacteristically out of breath. "She phoned," was all she could gasp out, as she recovered from her sprint from the canteen.

"Who phoned?" enquired Reid, uncomprehending.

Sheila held up the mobile phone in her left hand. "Mrs. Pyle. She's changed her mind."

**********

"Did he go for it?" Sheila was hovering anxiously as Reid returned from seeing Brocklehurst again.

Reid mimicked his DCI's public school voice. "I'll get on to the media bods, you go straight round to the Pyle residence and make sure she doesn't bloody well change her mind again."

Sheila smirked and threw him a Mars bar. "Best get that down your neck, then. It might be a while till dinner, the rate she talks at."

A much-altered Lisa Pyle awaited Reid and Boydeau at the home in West Woods. She admitted them without a word and they followed her into the living room with a distinct feeling of déjà vu. Although they were not to be disappointed this time, there was still a definite chill in the atmosphere.

"I've had time to think, and even though I don't believe for a minute that Jon's done anything wrong, I do want to help find him. So I'll do the TV appeal, if you think it'll work," she announced in a tightly controlled manner.

Still uncertain of her intentions, Reid asked, "What do you think might have happened to him?"

"Oh, I know you're convinced he's guilty of some misdeed," Mrs. Pyle replied with a challenging glint in her eye, "but I know him better than anyone, and I _know_ he wouldn't suddenly go against everything he's ever worked for." She paused, staring once more at the photographs of her children. Her certainty was impressive as she finished, "I think someone has done something to him, maybe held him against his will. A criminal."

Something in her delivery didn't jibe with Reid, but he put it to the back of his mind for the moment. It might simply be nerves, or there might be something she wasn't telling them. Whatever her motivation, he wanted Mrs. Pyle to appear on television and make a plea for her husband's safe return.

He had been involved in dozens of cases where victims' families had held press conferences, and in almost a third of those instances the person making the appeal had been in some way involved in, if not directly responsible for, the victim's disappearance. He was only too aware that Mrs. Pyle might well be planning to use the media spotlight for purposes of her own. However, he had no chance of knowing the truth one way or the other at present, and as this was his best opportunity to keep the case on the boil they would proceed as if she was quite innocent – despite the fact that he was finding that idea harder to accept by the minute.

Sheila had taken over and was being reassuringly professional. "Our media department will be sending someone round in the next hour to explain the procedure to you. They'll help you draft a statement for the press and the TV appeal, and give you some idea of what to expect when you're in front of the cameras. You may already have had some thoughts about what you'd like to say, and they'll advise you on what's best."

A heavy silence hung in the room. Reid wished he could put his finger on the cause of it, other than a general cynicism regarding Mrs. Pyle's sincerity. He racked his brain for something trivial to say that might help her open up, but small talk in situations like this wasn't his forté. Fortunately, a ring on the doorbell gave Reid the chance for a quick confab with Boydeau.

"What d'you think?" he hissed.

"She's too confident," Sheila whispered back. "Something's not right."

"D'you reckon she knows where he is, what he's up to, or has he just primed her to respond certain ways in given situations?"

Sheila's eyebrows nearly got lost in her hairline. "You mean, like brainwashing? Good grief, sarge..." she tailed off and spoke in a normal voice as Mrs. Pyle re-entered the room, "...so I told him I couldn't possibly comment on that. Ah, DS Burton!" She stood up and shook hands with the smartly-dressed officer who had also appeared.

"DC Boydeau...DS Reid," he nodded at them both.

"Can we leave you to it?" Reid rose to his feet.

"I think so," replied Burton. "It shouldn't take more than an hour. DC Gould is just on her way in from the car with some kit."

"We'll go now, Mrs. Pyle," said Boydeau, "but we'll come back if you need us to. Chief Inspector Brocklehurst has assigned you a family liaison officer, Suzy Green, and she'll be here shortly, to support you before, during, and after the press conference. And of course you can always call me again if you need anything." Sheila actually touched the woman sympathetically on the arm, and was rewarded with a twitch and a step back. Boydeau forced a smile, and she and Reid excused themselves and left.

For once, Sheila didn't object when Reid lit up on the way down the garden path. She was too busy sounding off. "What is that woman's problem?!" she demanded as they got into the car.

"It's five foot ten, looks like a bloody rake, and hates my guts," retorted Reid laconically, turning the key in the ignition.

**************

"...so I'm appealing to you, whoever you are: if you know where my husband is, or if you think you know someone with information about him, please contact the police at the number ..." Mrs. Pyle stopped, as if trying to rein in her emotions, took a deep breath, and went on, "...at the number they will give out in a moment." She looked straight into the camera and said, in a voice filled with pathos, "My children need their dad. Please let him come home. Thank you."

Several dozen camera flashes lit up the room, and Sheila placed a comforting hand on Lisa Pyle's. This time she wasn't rebuffed. Brocklehurst spoke.

"The number to call if you have _any_ information regarding the disappearance of Detective Inspector Jonathan Pyle is 0800 947 233...no, there will be no questions at this time," he stated firmly as a reporter called out something. "That will be all."

Reid turned off the television set as the hotline number appeared on the screen, and sat back in his armchair. Now it was just a waiting game. He knew he would get a call if any solid leads turned up, but he also suspected that the DCI would keep his promise to shelve the investigation if Pyle wasn't found.It was going to be a long evening.


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

In the end the waiting got to Reid. He'd come home to give himself a break because he couldn't stand staring at the walls of the office any longer, but there was only so long he could chain-smoke and stare at a silent telephone. Grabbing up his jacket he went across to the answering machine, turned it on and pressed the "record new message" button. When the tone sounded he barked into the microphone: "Ring the mobile!" stuffed the Nokia into one pocket and his Rothmans into the other and went out for a walk, leaving the red light on the answerphone gleaming steadily in the dark.

It was late, it was raining and the streets were emptying, which suited him fine. Head down, collar turned up, he walked quickly, almost hammering his feet down on the paving stones. He wasn't heading anywhere in particular, just keeping on the move, trying to stay one jump ahead of the explosion which he could feel slowly gathering inside him.

Only in the last few days, with the pressure of the case suddenly gone, had he really had time to take stock of the situation he'd arrived back in. For months, every atom of his being had been focussed on recovery and rehabilitation to get back to the kids, back to work and prove to himself and BB (and everyone else at Northcote, and to Louise, if he was honest with himself) that he could do the job well, and do it sober.

And when there was a job to do, he was proving that he was more than capable. The difficulty, he was beginning to realise, was the quiet times when there were no questions to answer and no moral outrage was driving him forward. Because then there was nothing to fill up the spaces inside him except what he put there himself. If he was going to stay straight he needed to find something – anything – to keep his mind filled up with white noise, and at the moment he had no idea what.

Stopping to light his umpteenth fag of the night, sheltering under the overhanging walkway above a row of shops, he found himself wondering if coming back had been the right thing to do. The kids were nearby, that was the main thing. There had been a barbeque at Louise and Paul's over the weekend and he'd been able to go round and spend the afternoon there. But the job? For all BB's politically correct noises, Reid knew his chances of career advancement at Northcote were minimal. And he had a nasty feeling that his reputation had probably preceded him in most of the rest of the Met, too.

He threw the tab end on the floor and stepped on it, not even registering yet that he was staring up at the lighted windows of the pub opposite. It would be dry inside, his subconscious reasoned. He wouldn't stay long. Just a pint. He was on the point of beginning to form the thought "Sod it!" in his mind when his mobile rang.

"Sarge?" It was Leo Gent, landed with waiting in the office for any responses to the TV appeal. "Nothing direct about the DI's whereabouts, but we've had a call from a lady and I thought you'd want me to tell you. She said she works – worked – with Tom Ainslie, and she thinks Mr Pyle might have been murdered."

Reid was back in motion, retracing his steps at double speed. "What's her name, Leo? Where does she live? Ring Boydeau and tell her I'm coming to pick her up." Cramming the phone back in his pocket he swerved round a bunch of tipsy girls on a works night out and half-ran round the next corner. Given the outlet it needed, the roaring at the back of his brain faded away to be replaced by the sudden notion that he was turning into an adrenaline junkie. _Nothing for it, then, _he decided as he reached the end of his street and accelerated along the empty pavement. _Going to have to take up bungee-jumping…_

*********************************

"Sorry to arrive on your doorstep so late, Mrs Anderson…" Reid began, and was cut off by a briskly raised hand.

"Nonsense. If you hadn't come to see me following my making such a telephone call I would have been most upset, although I confess I was a little taken aback by the speed of your response."

Boydeau, who'd been a little taken aback herself and had been about to step into a lovely hot bath when her phone had rung, smiled at the elderly woman as they stood a little awkwardly in the front hall. "DS Reid takes his job very seriously."

"Well, I should hope so. Come through, do." Straight-backed and swift-moving, Mrs Anderson ushered them into her comfortable lounge and produced tea in cups and cakes on plates before perching herself on the edge of her chair.

Boydeau produced her notebook and pulled her reading glasses out of her jacket pocket as Reid said: "I know you've spoken to DC Gent earlier, Mrs Anderson, but if you could just tell us what you told him…"

Clasping her hands neatly on her knee, the old lady thought for a moment. "Well – I should start by apologising for not telling you about this earlier. I work in the hospice shop down on the Parade as a volunteer, and as you're probably aware, one of my co-workers was poor Tom Ainslie." Breaking off, she sighed and shook her head a little. "He was a nice boy, and he really was trying very hard to put his past behind him. When he went missing, I confess I did fear the worst. But then it appeared from the newspapers when he was found that his death had been an unfortunate accident, and so I thought I must have been mistaken…" she paused again. "I'm terribly sorry. I'm not making a great deal of sense, am I?"

Boydeau glanced briefly at Reid, who was leaning back in his seat wearing the impassive look which meant that he was watching and listening intently and expecting her to ask the questions. "Let's start with Tom, if we may, Mrs Anderson." Sheila gave her an encouraging smile. "What did you mean exactly when you said you "feared the worst" when he went missing?"

Mrs Anderson looked at her frankly. "I thought he'd got involved with drugs again. I'm a retired nurse, DC Boydeau, and I've seen enough addicts in my time to recognise one when I'm working beside him three days a week. Although Tom really was trying to stay on the straight and narrow. Anyway – the day before Tom went missing, he had a long conversation with one of our regular customers. A little Scottish gentleman with a terrible personal problem."

_Bingo!_ Sheila thought. _You can run, McVey, but you can't hide_. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Reid stiffen like a hunting dog catching a scent. "Do you know what they talked about, Mrs Anderson?"

He was answered with a shake of the head. "I'm sorry," Mrs Anderson said, "but I really wasn't taking much notice. I'm afraid" – she leaned forward with a confidential air – "Mr Whyte is the sort of chap who'll keep one talking for ever if you let him, and I was really rather glad to have avoided him."

Sheila caught Reid's eye and they both grinned. "That's quite understandable," Boydeau said in a suitably professional tone. "Can you think of anything Tom said afterwards that might be of any importance?"

The elderly woman frowned, tapping a forefinger against her lower lip. "Not that I recall," she replied eventually. "The only thing I remember him saying later on was that he'd need to leave at lunchtime to run an errand and could I manage to shut up the shop without him at the end of the day. And of course I said that was fine and he was to get himself off." She gave a little sigh of frustration. "I _do_ wish I'd realised it was going to be important. But it wasn't until the next time that…" she trailed off, shaking her head.

"The next time?" Shelia prompted. She and Reid exchanged brief glances again.

Mrs Anderson sat very still for a moment, her eyes closed as she ordered her thoughts. "The day before yesterday," she said, slowly, "Mr Whyte had come into the shop, as he does two or three days each week, and I saw him talking to another gentleman." She looked up at Boydeau. "The second man was your Mr Pyle, the one who's gone missing."

Reid bolted upright in his chair as if his spine were spring-loaded. "Two days ago?!" he snapped. "Are you sure?"

"Quite certain." Mrs Anderson's reply was firm, and very slightly affronted.

Resisting the temptation to flap a reproving hand at her boss, Sheila stepped in hastily. "If you can go over the whole incident bit by bit, Mrs Anderson," she said, "any details you can give us – anything at all – will be very useful."

Again there was a lengthy pause; the older woman was clearly replaying the events in her mind's eye before she spoke. As she waited, Boydeau considered whether Reid might literally explode with impatience, and, if so, how long it would take to get the stains out of the green-and-cream carpet.

At length, Mrs Anderson began. "I was serving a customer," she said in the same, slow, careful manner, "when I saw Mr Whyte come in and start browsing the shop. As I said, he's a regular customer and he comes in two or three times each week and looks to see what new stock we have on display. And he does like a chat, if he has the opportunity. He's obviously quite a lonely little man."

_No surprise there_, Sheila thought, scribbling notes, and then realised she was being unnecessarily obnoxious and felt a tiny twinge of guilt.

"I always keep one eye on him," Mrs Anderson was saying, "because if I don't he occasionally pops something into his pocket without paying for it. So I saw everything that happened. Mr Whyte was looking through a box of CDs that had just been put out, and Mr Pyle came up behind him. When Mr Whyte turned round and saw him, he jumped a bit and looked surprised, but they obviously knew each other. I heard Mr Pyle call him "Gordon" as they went outside, and I could see them through the window talking to each other. It looked as though it was turning into an argument, and then Mr Pyle walked off. Mr Whyte stood looking a bit lost and then he came back in, but he didn't stay long and he didn't talk to anyone. He sort of… drifted about for a few minutes and then he left." She gave a little nod as though satisfied that she'd covered everything she needed to say. "And then I put the news on this evening, and saw Mr Pyle's wife on the television appeal, and I was quite horrified. Young Tom talks to Mr Whyte and disappears, and of course is found dead, and now your Mr Pyle talks to the same person, and _he's_ missing. His poor wife. It doesn't bear thinking about."

"How did Mr Pyle look as he walked away?" Reid asked. Mrs Anderson looked confused, and he rephrased hurriedly: "Did he look pleased, or…"

"Oh, I see!" Mrs Anderson cocked her head to one side, but this time the pause was mercifully brief. "The word I would choose is "frustrated", Sergeant Reid. He looked angry and frustrated."

***********************

"Talk about a model witness!" Boydeau riffled through the pages of notes she'd taken in the hour they'd spent with Mrs Anderson. "Dotted the I's and crossed every tee."

"I nearly bloody dotted her once or twice," Reid grumbled round the side of his Rothmans. A thin drizzly rain had begun to fall and they were sitting in a bus-shelter round the corner from the old lady's house whilst Reid topped up his nicotine levels, Sheila having flatly refused to get in the car with him whilst he had a lighted cigarette in his hand.

"Don't be ungrateful," she told him, waggling her notebook in front of his eyes. "We've probably got enough here to convince BB to keep the case open."

Reid drew thoughtfully on his fag. "So Pyle's not just still in the country, he's still in the area," he said. "Sounds to me like there's something he wants to clear up before he leaves and he wants Minger McVey to give him a hand again."

"And it sounds like he didn't get much joy," Boydeau added. "Which means…"

"…he's probably lurking around somewhere even as we speak!" Reid pronounced dramatically. He dropped the tab end on the pavement and crushed it with his foot, registered Sheila's level stare, picked it up and flicked it at the nearby bin. "I'll go and see Brocklehurst first thing in the morning. Even if he won't let me put the whole team on it, I think I can persuade him to let me have you, Claire and Leo. Right." He stood up and looked down at her, hands in pockets. "I'll drop you back home."

"Too right you will." She put away her notebook and rose to her feet. "Some of us have a life."

"Which of us is that, then?"

Boydeau gave him an old-fashioned look and headed for the car.


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

As Reid had predicted, Brocklehurst reluctantly allowed him to put a limited team onto following up the lead given to them by Mrs Anderson. The meeting in BB's office had not been a comfortable one – it was clear from the DCI's manner that he would much rather have let the whole business quietly die a death and/or turn into someone else's problem - but both he and Reid were well aware that the Met's upper echelons were expecting a positive result and that this could be their last and best chance to achieve one.

A considerably more affable gathering took place in Reid's office shortly afterwards, fuelled by a large packet of chocolate digestives and several cups of tea. Leo Gent and Claire Jordan sat at Hannigan's desk whilst Sheila shared Reid's, and the four of them reviewed the case so far before beginning to exchange thoughts on how they might now proceed.

Reid, despite having managed only a couple of hours sleep and looking, in Gryff Coleman's colourful phrase, "Like half a bucket of warmed-over puke," felt more positive than he had in a few days. Mrs Anderson's phone-call had put the ball back in their court, and unlike his superior he'd been dismayed at the thought of the case fizzling out into nothing. "No good pounding the streets looking for Pyle," he declared, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head. "We've no idea where to start and there's not enough of us to cover the ground."

"We could tail his missus," offered Leo, who was on his third biscuit but nevertheless wearing his best air of efficiency. "If he's in the area somewhere I'll bet you anything you like he's in touch with her."

"Yep, I think you're probably right. And since you two have a pretty good track record so far, then the lovely Lisa's all yours." Reid glanced over at Boydeau. "Guess where you're off to?"

She wrinkled her nose in anticipation. "Don't tell me – the hospice shop?"

"Got it in one. Mrs A told us that McVey goes in there two or three times a week, so we need to know when. If we're really lucky he'll be a complete saddo and have regular days and times; if not, you might have to make yourself comfortable for a day or two. That little toe-rag's got a few things he still needs to share with us, and since he's not coming here when he should do we'll have to go and get him." He leaned forward and began scribbling notes on a clean sheet of paper. "The DCI made it very clear that he expects me to be where he can find me for the next few days, but the minute anybody turns anything up I want to know." There was a general draining of tea-mugs and a reaching for coats and bags, in the midst of which Reid added: "And don't any of you try anything on your own, you hear? If you get a sniff, you call me and you call for backup. There's already been arson, manslaughter, attempted kidnapping and intimidation linked to this lot and if they've been hanging around here looking for something all this time then they're going to be getting desperate." He looked sharply at each of them in turn and received three nods of understanding in reply. "Right. Get cracking."

The door clicked shut behind them and Reid, left alone, looked around the little room with dislike, sighed and ran his hands through his hair. BB had in fact said something to the effect that if his DS did any more gallivanting around the parish without keeping him fully informed there would be hell to pay. The mood the DCI had been in this morning Reid could well believe it, and he could live without the aggro.

To be fair to Brocklehurst he was under a great deal of pressure from on high, and whilst Pyle had been neither use nor ornament at Northcote his abrupt departure had left the department short-staffed and with several cases hanging suspended in mid-air. There would be a replacement for Pyle shortly, but until then someone had to make the day-to-day decisions and until the errant DI's successor was appointed Reid was it. Time for him to keep his nose clean and show what a good little team player he could be. The phone began to ring, and he reached for it with an air of resignation.

*******************************

As the others walked down the corridor toward the main office, Leo Gent sighed theatrically and dragged an exaggerated forearm across his brow. "All things considered that wasn't too bad, was it? The miserable bastard nearly smiled about twice."

Claire shot a look at Boydeau that was half-embarrassment and half-apology. "Don't be such a bitch, Leo."

"Well, he is." Gent gave a sulky shrug of his shoulders. "Wouldn't hurt him to force a laugh once a week, would it?"

Sheila, whose private opinion of Gent as a bit of a pillock was being further confirmed with every passing second, broke in before he could warm any further to his theme. "He's a bit intense," she conceded, "but I've never known him to ask anything of one of us he wouldn't do himself, and he pushes himself harder than anyone." Turning to Claire, she added, "I'm going to get myself over to The Parade now while it's early and see if I can get a word with Mrs A, or whoever's in the shop. See you later."

Halfway down the stairs she realised she'd left her car-keys in the drawer of her desk and with a little sigh she headed back on herself. If she was like this at thirty-six God help her when she hit forty_._ She rounded the corner by the half-open door of the main CID office and was about to push it wide when she heard Jordan's voice come clearly through the gap: "So… how long's Reid been separated from his wife, do you know?"

Altering her position to put Claire in her eyeline, Boydeau got a good look at the expression on the younger woman's face. _Good Grief! _she thought incredulously. _I do believe someone's developed a crush!_ Feeling guilty for inadvertently eavesdropping she prepared to announce her presence with a noisy entrance, but hesitated as Leo said: "He's divorced, far as I know. But if you want to get in there you'll have to join the queue."

"What are you on about now?" Jordan demanded.

_Yes, what?_ Claire wasn't facing in her direction, so Sheila laid a hand on the door and applied light pressure. The door swung gently back on its hinges, allowing Boydeau a view of the very top of the spikes gelled into Leo's hair as the DC rummaged in the bottom drawer of his desk.

"If you wanna try your luck with Reid you'll have to line up behind Boydeau, won't you?"

"You what?!" Claire's voice was as flabbergasted as Sheila's thoughts.

"Doing the duvet rhumba, ain't they?" Gent's hand appeared above the top of the desk long enough to perform an obscene gesture before he returned to his search.

Very slowly Sheila began to walk toward Leo's desk. Jordan caught the movement out of the corner of her eye and made a tiny strangled noise, her face flushing with mortification. "Leo…"

"Don't tell me you haven't noticed it." Oblivious to Boydeau's approach Gent continued with both his rummaging and his monologue. "If they're not sitting in the canteen together or shut up in his office they're out on a shout together. And there was that business with Pyle in the corridor the other week. I reckon those two have been together ages. Bet that's partly why his wife threw him out… There it is! Knew I'd got some in here!" He straightened up triumphantly, a packet of chewing-gum in his hand, and found himself almost nose to nose with Boydeau, whose expression rivalled Reid at his most intimidating.

"How you ever made it out of uniform is a total mystery to me," Sheila said in a conversational tone. "Did it never occur to you, you cretin, that if – and I stress IF - I chose to sleep with DS Reid we might just be a little bit more subtle about it than to parade it around in front of the entire office? And since we're on the subject, whilst I accept that speculating about other people's relationships is pretty much what you're best at, just watch where you do it. Because if I ever hear you discussing this topic again I'll barbecue your testicles. Do we understand each other?"

Without waiting for a reply she turned on her heel, said to Claire Jordan, "Good luck with Mrs Pyle," and strode out of CID in the direction of the stairs, snatching up her car-keys as she swept by.

Jordan looked across at Leo Gent, who had gone an interesting colour. "Nice job, Leo. Very subtle." She hopped down from the desk and followed in Sheila's wake, leaving Gent to trail shamefacedly behind her.

*************************

Sheila was still simmering when she reached the car-park, and banged the door of the Vectra shut with unnecessary force. Despite her fearsome reputation and her total inablilty to suffer fools she was generally even-tempered, but Gent's idiocy had touched a nerve.

It wasn't so much the gossiping about the supposed relationship between herself and Reid. There were several partnerships in the division whose dynamic attracted comment, Gent and Jordan's among them – though in their case it was less about supposed sexual attraction and more along the lines of how a nice sensible girl like Claire put up with working alongside such a plonker – and the pairing of a male DS and a female DC was always going to be up for idle speculation.

In addition, Boydeau readily admitted to herself, if to no-one else, that there was a grain of truth in Gent's conjecture; Reid was an attractive man, and in other circumstances she would quite likely not have kicked him out of bed for eating biscuits. However, she had worked with him long enough and was sufficiently realistic to recognise that the shared qualities which made them a good working partnership would have had them at each others' throats within weeks in any other context – and that was without even factoring in how high-maintenance Reid could be. The woman who took him on permanently, Sheila thought as she negotiated a set of traffic-lights, would be a unique and gifted individual and would deserve a bloody medal.

Pulling on the handbrake in the car-park of The Parade, Boydeau rummaged in her handbag for a couple of pounds to feed the ticket machine. What had really got under her skin was the inference that she was in some way connected with the failure of Reid's marriage. How many times, she wondered, had Gent peddled that poisonous little thought around the squad in her absence? Office speculation along the lines of "yes they are/no they're not/told you they were" was one thing but being postulated as a marriage wrecker was definitely another. She briefly allowed herself the pleasure of imagining what Reid would do to Gent if she passed on this nugget of information, but reluctantly discarded that particular option on the grounds that she might well get them both dismissed. A much more subtle though less satisfying solution would be to suggest a girlie night out with Claire and see if she could find out just how much damage Gent had done before she took more drastic action.

Suddenly realising that she'd been sitting fuming in her car for several minutes she gave herself a mental shake. Time, tide and pongy little Scotsmen would wait for no-one and she needed to get her mind back on the case. She could just imagine Reid's reaction if she'd managed to miss McVey's first appearance of the week and they ended up waiting another three or four days for him to surface again.

**************************

It was still relatively early in the morning and The Parade was quiet, just a few handfuls of shoppers moving purposefully across the paving stones as they went about their business. Sheila pushed open the door to the shop which did a fairly steady trade in second-hand books, ornaments, jewellery and clothing to raise funds for St Mary's hospice. It was neat and clean inside, and mostly managed to avoid smelling like a charity shop. There was no sign of Mrs Anderson, but a quick word with the sprightly old woman at the desk led to a phone-call which brought the shop manager down from the stockroom, and within a few minutes Boydeau was sitting on a slightly battered swivel chair in Barbara Patchett's tiny, cluttered office.

A brisk, busy little lady a few years younger than Mrs Anderson, Barbara confirmed that the shop was indeed a regular haunt of Gordon McVey's: "We usually see him two or three days a week and he's been here more often than that lately." The interview was businesslike and fruitful; once aware of as much of the story as Sheila could tell her, Mrs Patchett was quite happy to agree to a small handful of policemen being accommodated on the premises for the express purpose of apprehending the errant "Mr Whyte". It wasn't that, though, which sent Sheila half-running back to the car and grabbing her mobile out of her bag to dial Reid's number. It was something else:

"… the really unpleasant part about it all," Mrs Patchett had said towards the end of their talk, "is that the last couple of days he's been in he's been asking to speak to Tom Ainslie. Now, obviously it's not our policy to discuss our staff's private lives and we've been telling him that Tom's away on holiday, but it's been really upsetting for everybody. Especially on top of that policeman disappearing like that. I think it would do us all good if you used the shop to catch him, DC Boydeau. We'd feel as though we were doing something to help."

Reid picked up after two or three rings and Sheila fired off her news. There was a short, stunned silence at the other end and she heard the faint creak of his chair as he leaned back in it. "How the hell," Reid demanded at last, "can McVey not know that Tom Ainslie's dead?"

"He was in our cells when we found the body, sarge," Sheila reminded him, "and you didn't tell him anything about it when you went in and ripped a few strips off him about the connection between Richardson and Empey. Pyle got him released the next day and presumably McVey went straight to ground and didn't talk to anyone till Pyle caught up with him earlier this week."

"Get back here, fast as you can," Reid said, "and put a team together to stake out that shop. If he really doesn't know what happened to Ainslie I want him safely in here before he finds out."

Sheila dropped her phone into her bag and whipped the Vectra out of the parking-space in a very different mood from that in which she'd manoeuvred it in. She wasn't sure how they'd use the information, but she sensed, and she knew from the tone of his voice that Reid did, too, that they'd just been handed a chance to make a breakthrough. Gordon McVey was their only link between Fairfax Road, Tom Ainslie and ex-DI Pyle, and she wasn't about to let him slip through her fingers.


	27. Chapter 27

_**Finally - it worked!**_

_**Thaks for your patience, folks - hope it's worth the delay!**_

_**

* * *

  
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**Chapter 27**

The next few days held an atmosphere akin to being perched on the lid of a crate of fireworks in the dark whilst someone who could be heard but not seen sneaked around nearby with a match. The whole team was on edge as well as on overtime, watching and waiting for what might be about to go off.

Gent and Jordan stuck to Lisa Pyle like chewing-gum to a shoe, although a couple of days of mind-numbing suburban routine quickly brought them to the suspicion that if she _were_ in contact with her husband she'd been instructed to carry on her life as normal and to stay away from him to avoid attracting attention.

Sheila, with Matt McGowan and big, black-haired Nick Lemon as her backup team, spent what felt like an eternity hiding in the stockroom of the charity shop waiting for McVey to put in an appearance, and the hours when the shop was closed were spent searching the streets in the surrounding area. Frustratingly, encountering Pyle on the premises seemed to have put the frighteners on Grotty Gordon and there had been no sign of him around The Parade at all. Certainly he was conspicuous by his absence from the shop, and she was beginning to fret that the trail had gone cold once more.

Trapped back at base for most of the time, running two or three cases at once and still trying to clear the filing backlog from his absence, Reid filled the air with smoke, the bin with waste paper and his evenings with repeating loops of endless theories and what-ifs. The chances of this case quietly going away were now pretty much nil – Pyle was nearby, he wanted something, and whatever it was it was important enough to Pyle to make it worth the risk of hanging around to get it. Now that they knew something was in the offing, there was a chance they could nab him when he went for it. The question was - who was going to be ready to move first?

***************************

Reid considered using work as a get-out clause and cancelling his therapy appointment, but in the end he fetched up outside Camille's little office at the appointed hour on Saturday afternoon. He had come to view his counselling sessions very much in the manner of mental physiotherapy – the effects were beneficial and he trusted the practitioner, but the process itself he found to be awkward, exhausting and not always entirely pleasant.

Crossing the street to the door of the tall town house he pressed the intercom and waited for a reply. "Hello, Terry," came Camille's lilting accent through the speaker, and, as always, he was momentarily jolted back to the day he'd first met her up in Denton.

Camille had travelled up from London for their initial appointment; he'd been a long way from being allowed to get behind the wheel of a car at that stage and in any case would doubtless have found an excuse not to go. When the idea of counselling had been mooted he'd been inwardly sceptical, but he'd made a promise and he wasn't about to do this by halves, and so he'd offered no resistance.

Their opening encounter had been a surprise to Reid. The terms "counsellor" and "therapist" had been bringing to mind images of a vague, longhaired boho-chic hippy or a trout-faced old battleaxe with a moustache and a corny North European accent, so when a tall, handsome redhead with a distinct Irish cadence to her voice walked into the room, proffered a hand and said: "Detective Sergeant Reid? I'm Camille O'Hara," it had taken his brain several seconds to transmit the message which enabled him to wipe the startled look off his face.

Three things about Camille had appealed to him immediately. Firstly, that she'd ignored the fact that he was having an off-day and was trembling so much from a combination of weakness, withdrawal and anxiety that he could hardly hold his hand steady enough to shake hers; secondly that she'd taken the trouble to use his full title and surname instead of doing that irritating new-age thing and calling him by his first name without having been introduced to him; thirdly, that her next sentence was: "Do you mind if I smoke?".

The shared ritual of opening a window, finding a receptacle for the ash, digging out lighters and opening packets had broken the ice and they'd got on well enough after that. She was straightforward and frank, answering his questions honestly – both the ones he asked outright and the ones she realised he wanted to ask but hadn't voiced – and that first occasion set the pattern for the others which had followed: Camille asking an opening question and then letting him talk around the answer as much or as little as he liked. If, as often happened, he ground to a halt in the middle of a thought she'd either wait patiently till he started up again or give him a little bump forward with a different question. She never asked him about his childhood, never tried to analyse his sex life and had a bullshit detector as sensitive as any copper's. Whilst she regularly put him through the wringer over the sessions that followed she did it with compassion and humour, and when the compulsory twelve week period had come to an end Reid had voluntarily extended it.

"You're looking well," Camille said as she opened the door wide and waved him through. "How're you doing?"

The low cream sofa by the window, scattered with bright cushions, was as far removed from a psychiatrist's couch as it was possible to be and Reid flopped down onto it with a sigh, automatically digging in his pocket as he did so. "Not bad."

He knew from the tone of her voice that she was already giving him her one-eyebrow-arched smile; the air of studied indifference that he attempted to maintain at their meetings was a source of constant amusement to her. "Not bad as in "not bad, all things considered," or not bad as in "Pretty good"?" she enquired, taking up position in the seat opposite with one long leg tucked underneath her.

He made a non-committal noise and drew on his cigarette, flicking the fringe out of his eyes with a quick movement. "Didn't take long to drop back into it, really," he said. "Like riding a bike, I suppose – you just remember how."

Camille lit a cigarette of her own and looked at him shrewdly. "How are the nights?" she asked.

"Crap," he said succinctly. "Weekends are good, though. Seen the kids, talked to Louise."

"And your new boss?" she asked. "You weren't looking forward to meeting with him the last time we spoke. How's that working out?"

It was Reid's turn to smile. Shaking his head he leaned forward to tap his fag out into the ashtray. "Funny you should ask about that…"

*************************

Monday morning, and Boydeau, Lemon and McGowan were back in the shop storeroom drawing lots for who got to go out and have a walk around first. The mind-numbing tedium was the worst thing about this kind of job; Sheila had even got to the point of starting to sort through the bags of clothing as they were contributed and getting the two PCs to help with reorganising the stockroom, just to stop them all going mad. The team of ladies who ran the place had spoiled them rotten with cups of tea, chocolate biscuits and home-made sandwiches for their lunch, but all three were acutely aware that time was running out. If McVey didn't show up soon, either Reid would be told to pull them out or Pyle would make his move before they were ready and they'd lose him.

Fate had other ideas, however, and at coming up for ten o'clock Mrs Anderson, who was minding the counter that day, hurried through the stockroom door. "He's here, DC Boydeau," she said urgently.

Boydeau hastened across to the door whilst Lemon grabbed up his radio and called McGowan, who'd won the draw to go for the first walk and had headed over to the newsagent's for a paper. Squinting through the gap between hinges and door-frame, Sheila could see the familiar scrawny form heading toward the back of the shop. Beckoning to Lemon, she took his radio. "Matt," she said in a quick undertone, "head back here straight away. Just wait by the door and come in when you see us move – I don't want to spook him."

"I'm on the way, Sheila," Matt's voice came squawking back. "I'm by the front window now."

"Okay. Come straight in, then."

Handing back the radio, Sheila signalled for Nick Lemon to follow her and the two of them walked quietly out past Mrs Anderson and headed toward the display of CDs which McVey was currently perusing. McGowan appeared in the doorway behind them and Lemon dropped back slightly so that they were advancing upon the hapless Scotsman in a triangular formation, Sheila at its apex. Walking up behind McVey she laid a hand on his arm and said quietly: "We need to have a chat again, Gordon."

She could feel him trembling through the grimy sleeve of his coat, and when he turned his head she was shocked at the change in him. He'd never looked especially healthy, but his eyes were bloodshot and sunken and she was sure he'd lost weight. When he spotted McGowan and the bear-like Nick he went so white that for a moment she thought they were about to achieve their second hospital case in two weeks.

"Ah havnae done anything," he said, pleadingly. "Can ye no all leave me alone, the lot of ye?"

"'Fraid not, sorry." Sheila said, blanching a little at the smell that billowed forth the second he opened his mouth. "You've breached your bail conditions and DS Reid would like to talk to you about it."

"Come on, mate." Nick Lemon closed a large hand around McVey's upper arm and began to walk him across to the back door where the car awaited them. McGowan moved to his other side and the little man complied, unresisting.

Boydeau looked after the mismatched trio as they disappeared through the stockroom, chewing her lip thoughtfully. Mrs Anderson appeared at her elbow. "He doesn't look at all well, does he?" the old lady asked in her perceptive way.

"No." Sheila frowned. "No, he looks awful." She couldn't help wondering what Pyle had said to McVey. She'd never seen a man so frightened in all her life.

*******************************

Reid was waiting for them in the reception area when they arrived, with Lee, the duty solicitor, hovering at his elbow. "'Allo, Gordon," he greeted the hapless McVey, smiling wolfishly. "PC McGowan, if you'd escort Mr McVey and Mr Lee up to Interview Three, then they can have a little chinwag before we come in to join them. Nice work, you lot," he added, nodding to Sheila and Nick Lemon and giving McGowan a thumbs-up as the young PC herded McVey and Lee toward the stairs.

"Didn't give us no bother at all in the end, Sarge," Lemon said, propping an elbow on Coleman's desk. "Trotted along like a lamb."

A little taken aback, Reid glanced at Sheila for confirmation, and she nodded. "No whining – well, none to speak of – no talk of suing anybody for anything. Not like him at all."

"You were right about the smell, though." Lemon rolled his eyes and wafted an exaggerated hand under his nose. "Bleedin' 'orrible in the car."

"Yeah, it's not too nice in an interview room." Reid leaned his back against the desk and folded his arms. "Did he say anything on the way over?"

Lemon shook his head. "Not a word," he said. "Just stared into space."

"Hmph." Reid sniffed. "Couldn't shut him up before. Right, thanks, Nick. I set Forrester on following up the ram-raid on the off-licence in Worcester Road, so I'm sure she'd appreciate your timely assistance."

"It's got to be more fun than sitting in that bloody stockroom!" Lemon groused cheerfully, shoving his bulk away from the counter with a sigh.

"No free buns here, though," Sheila called after him and got a rude hand-signal in reply as Lemon vanished up the stairs. She turned to Reid. "McVey really wasn't himself, Sarge," she said more soberly. "He looked scared half to death when we walked in."

"Yeah, well, the sight of Lemon would scare anybody," Reid observed, fiddling with an elastic band which he was wearing on his wrist. Seeing her looking askance he shrugged in mild embarrassment. "I asked Camille about cutting down on the fags. I'm supposed to give this a snap every time I get a craving."

Boydeau blinked and looked at him, poker-faced. "How's that working out, then?"

"It bloody stings!" He displayed the skin on the inside of his wrist, which now sported a large red mark. "And I've had five today so far."

"Full marks for effort, anyway." she said sympathetically.

He snorted. "How about McVey, then?"

"Trembling like a leaf before I even got hold of him. And he looks like he hasn't slept for days."

Reid straightened up, shaking his jacket sleeve down over his wrist. "Let's go and see if we can find out why, shall we?"

They headed across to the stairs. "What about the Tom Ainslie thing?" Sheila asked as they started upwards.

"Let's play that by ear," Reid said over his shoulder. "I want to know what Pyle's up to first and foremost. Anything else is a bonus." Hearing her give a little sigh he paused on the stairs and turned, looking down at her. "Look, I know. I want to put the whole Tom Ainslie business properly to bed just as much as you do. But so far as BB's concerned that's just a sideshow – Pyle's the main attraction. We only bring Ainslie up if it seems directly relevant, okay?"

"Right you are, sarge." Boydeau covered her disappointment with her best professional look as she stepped up beside him and he startled her by giving her shoulder a quick, sympathetic squeeze as they headed onto the corridor. Three miles up his own backside one day, and in touch with his inner agony aunt the next. It kept things interesting, that much was certain.

**********************************

"All right, Mr McVey." Reid began purposefully. He and Boydeau faced their huddled captive across the black-topped table, with Lee sitting as far away from his client as he decently could. "Let's not make this a long job. You were bailed from this station on condition that you report back here once weekly, which you have neglected to do. And last week you were seen, by several reliable and trustworthy witnesses, in long and somewhat heated conversation with DI Jonathan Pyle, who's currently the subject of a police search and a missing persons enquiry. The witness who reported you did so because she feared you might be in some way connected with DI Pyle vanishing into thin air. So." Reid leaned forward a little and glared at McVey. "Either you've made a jump from vandalism and housebreaking to abduction and suspected murder, or you've got a story to share with us."

The silence that followed was a lengthy one. McVey twisted in his seat, wringing his hands and fidgeting with the cuffs of his sweatshirt. Two or three times he opened his mouth as if to speak and then closed it again, and his face was a study in indecision. At length, Lee leaned forward and spoke to him quietly. McVey looked up at the solicitor with an almost pleading expression on his face, and Lee nodded encouragingly. McVey drew in a breath and peered from Boydeau to Reid. "Ah wannae make a deal," he said.

Somehow, they refrained from leaping from their seats and high-fiving each other. Boydeau pushed her glasses up onto her hair and stared at the Scotsman impassively. Reid stood up and leaned both palms flat on the table, looming over McVey. "You've been watching too many episodes of Law and Order, mate," he said softly, "and you're just an errand-boy that's about to take the fall for the pondlife who's been running him. So _you_ tell us what you know and _we'll_ consider not doing you for obstructing the police. There's your _deal_." He emphasised the final word with a contemptuous curl of his lip.

Shrinking back even further into his chair, McVey swallowed several times before he forced the words out. "Ah know what he wants," he croaked. "Jon Pyle. He came tae ask me tae get it for him."

"I want the lot, Gordon." Reid lowered his head until his face was inches from McVey's. From Sheila's perspective the scene looked reminiscent of a shot from a David Attenborough documentary on birds of prey, with McVey as the rabbit. "The whole story, from the beginning. Don't leave anything out, don't change any names. And don't lie to me. Cos I'll tell you something, _Mister_ McVey…" he leaned forward still further, pinioning the wretched little man with a gaze of blue steel "…if you think DI Pyle's a scary bastard, you really, _really_ don't want to upset me!"


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28**

With hesitations, stumbles, detours and cul-de-sacs the tale came garbling forth. Even though what was emerging was a fragmented and jumbled stream of consciousness, it rapidly became clear that Gordon McVey, far from being the bit-part player they had assumed him to be, had somehow managed to land himself smack in the middle of the whole proceedings.

He had, it transpired, worked for Empey at the cash and carry for a few years; ironically, he'd initially been employed on an offenders' retraining scheme and Empey had retained his services after the initial six months' funding had run out. Working as a yard-man, van-driver and general gofer he'd made the acquaintance of Tom Ainslie, who had arrived at the cash and carry several months after McVey and had worked part of the time dealing with requisitions and shipments and part of the time in Customer Services.

"Everyone took tae Tom, 'know?" McVey said in one of his many digressions from the main narrative. "Jist a good kid. Nae side tae him."

A couple of months later, McVey and Ainslie had been approached by Richardson, with the offer of "a wee bit in hand" if they ignored certain packages which appeared at irregular intervals in the warehouse.

"And what was in these parcels?" Reid interrupted him to ask.

McVey wrinkled his nose. "Ah didnae open any," he said a little defensively, and then noticed the expression on Reid's face and hurried on: "…but it wasnae anything major league back then. Cigarettes, bottles of stuff, maybe some designer gear. Jist knock-offs, bits and pieces. Steady trade, mind. Three or four a week, here an' there. Richardson'd point them out, Tom'd "forget" tae put them through on the paperwork, ah'd "accidentally" leave 'em unattended. Ye get ma drift."

Boydeau flipped to a clean page in her notebook. "Who was running the operation at that time?" she enquired.

"Frank Empey," came the immediate response. "He's a dodgy bugger an' his missus likes the high life, ye ken. Kept him on the hop buyin' her baubles an' forever swannin' off on cruises an' the like. But Frank was never intae the hard stuff."

"What changed?" Reid shifted his weight in his seat and fiddled with the elastic band again, to Sheila's fleeting private amusement.

"That dirty copper came on the scene." There was no hesitation in McVey's voice.

"You mean DI Pyle?"

"That's him. Turns up about a year ago an' the rumour is he clocked what was goin' on and told Frank Empey he'd got a choice. Gie him a cut and let him in on the operation, or Frank was history, an' the rest of us wi' him. Soon as he's in he starts takin' over. New stuff starts comin' in – big crates, not so often, but serious. Guns. An' Frank starts creamin' some aff the top tae bring Pyle down a peg or two – him an' Richardson together. Fixin' the books, comin' tae Tom an tellin' him such an' such a crate hadnae arrived, dodgy mates of Richardson's lurkin' round, loadin' stuff intae cars in the middle of the night. Richardson fetches Dunsmore in – extra pair o' hands, he says – puts him on tae work along with me, and uses his house tae hide some of what they're nickin'. When Tom got pinched for drugs they put Dunsmore on his job."

"So what went wrong, Gordon?" Reid asked. "Sounds like it was all rolling along nicely."

"Ach!" McVey pulled a disgusted face. "Bloody Richardson pushin' his luck. Loves himsel' that one. Frank told him tae back off a bit but he wasnae havin' any of it. Said Pyle had told him they were to scale up – some sort of changeover happenin' in the police an' Pyle reckoned it'd work right for us – an' Richardson was determined he was havin' his cut."

Boydeau looked puzzled. "Changeover?"

"Ah reckon that was all bollocks," McVey said, shrugging. "Something about some sergeant movin' on an' the new guy comin' in bein' a pisshead who couldnae tell his arse from his elbow. Richardson was all about how they'd put this eejit on the case an' we'd be in clover 'cause there's no way he'd crack it. Anyways…"

He broke off for a second to rub his forehead with the back of his hand and Sheila snatched a quick glance at Reid, whose fist had clenched so tightly on the table that his knuckles were showing white through the skin. Mercifully, McVey was caught up in his narrative and the flow continued before Reid could speak.

"… about two month ago Richardson must hae pushed it once too often, an' Pyle realises somethin' dodgy's goin' on. He comes tae me. Wants Dunsmore out o' the place on Fairfax Road an' wants me in there for a look round. Offers me a few grand, no questions asked."

"Why you?" Reid's voice held the glacial calm which told Sheila that he was battening down his emotions with every ounce of his willpower.

McVey shrugged again. "Ah was a wee bit short on a few bills, 'know? Owed a few folk."

"So you thought you'd sell out your mate and get him worked over?"

"Naw, it wasnae like that at all!" protested McVey, looking wounded. "Ah wasnae ever goin' tae put anyone in danger."

"But you took Pyle's money and you did the job." Sheila pointed out.

The little man squirmed in his seat. "Aye, right enough. But ah tipped Dunsmore off. He wasnae in the house when ah bricked it. Tom went round…"

"Back up!" barked Reid, so sharply that they saw McVey flinch. "What are you on about: "Tom went round"? He'd been gone from Gold Star for months. What was it to do with him?"

_Here it comes,_ Sheila thought.

"Ah used tae see Tom in the shop a fair bit, after he started up there," McVey explained earnestly. "An' we'd chat a bit, 'know? So Ah'm tryin' tae think of how ah can warn Dunsmore whit's happenin', an' ah mentioned it tae Tom – quiet, like. An' he says, not tae worry, he'll pop over in the afternoon an' tell Dunsmore tae clear out…"

"You twisty little piece of…" Reid bit down on the end of the sentence as Mr Lee's eyebrows shot up into his hairline and Sheila gently kicked him on the ankle. "You went in there and offered him a cut if he'd help you out, didn't you? He was out of it all, and _you_ went and dragged him back in!"

"No … no, Ah swear tae ye!" The little man looked so wretched that Boydeau was inclined to believe him. It wasn't beyond the bounds of possibility that Tom Ainslie had been the nearest thing to a friend that McVey had had in years, and that, faced with choosing between Pyle and Dunsmore, he'd gone to pour his heart out to Tom and to seek his advice. "Ah jist went tae talk it through – get ma heid straight. He said he'd take the afternoon aff an' go up there." He hung his head miserably. "Ah havnae seen him since, mind. An' the old wimmin in the shop won't let on whit's happenin'. Ah reckon ah got him pinched, didn't ah? Did ye pick him up? Cos he's done nothin' – like you say, he got out o' it, an' good luck tae him."

Reid finally boiled over, undone by the savage irony of it all. "Did we pick him up? You spineless, brain-dead waste of space!" His chair clattered to the floor as he launched himself to his feet, slamming both hands down on the table with a bang that had McVey cringing backward and Lee opening his mouth to protest, but Reid stopped, breathing heavily. When he spoke again his voice held an almost vicious quality. "You didn't get him arrested, Gordon. You got him killed. We scraped that kid off the bottom of a quarry in Lyne Woods two days after you bricked Dunsmore's window. So you might want to bear that in mind while you think about what you're going to tell us next." Turning on his heel he stalked to the door, wrenched it open and was gone, leaving an echoing silence in his wake.

Boydeau quietly took off her glasses and pretended not to notice the fat, greasy tears which had begun to run down McVey's unshaven cheeks. She rummaged in her pocket and tossed a little packet of tissues onto the table near his elbow. "I think we'd better break the interview there for a while," she said. "I'll send in someone to get you a cup of tea, Mr McVey. Mr Lee, if you'll excuse me…"

The duty solicitor, scribbling in his own notebook, gave her a nod of acknowledgement and she made her escape as discreetly as possible. McGowan, looking a little shell-shocked, was hovering by the door.

"Which way?" Sheila asked, and the young PC pointed. "Thanks. Pop in and sort a drink out for our friend in there, will you? He's just had a bit of a traumatic experience."

***************************

Reid banged through his office door, crashing it shut behind him hard enough to make his desk-lamp rattle in sympathy, and launched an almighty kick at the waste-paper basket which sent it hurtling across the carpet to hit the opposite wall, balls of screwed-up leaflets and torn-up envelopes spilling and fluttering to the ground. "Bastard!" he said out loud to the universe in general, and then rummaged for a Rothmans and lit up, throwing the packet down on his desk before flinging himself into his chair and spinning it so that he could see out of the window. _At least I usually get to __**start**__ a case before I bugger it up. _With an effort he resisted the temptation to set his anger free; trashing the office wasn't an option. He'd have some awkward questions to answer as it was. _Long, slow breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Though I don't suppose even Camille envisaged smoking a fag at the same time…_

The door behind him clicked open and then gently shut again, and he knew without looking that it was Boydeau. Without turning round, he listened to her righting the basket and collecting up the scattered contents. When the rustling was ended by the gentle thud of the bin being put back in its place by the desk and he knew she was standing by the desk watching him, he raised the hand that held the cigarette in the air above his head and announced: "Six. Very shortly to be seven."

He heard her give a little snort of amusement and envisaged her shaking her head at him in concerned tolerance. "Never mind, sarge. There's always tomorrow…" There was a rattle and a creak as she pulled out Hannigan's chair and sat down in it. "There's no wonder Pyle didn't take to you, is there?" she said rhetorically.

Twirling the chair round so that he faced her he exhaled a long plume of smoke and crushed the end of the cigarette out into a saucer on his desk, picking up the packet to take out number seven in the same movement. He said nothing, but gave her a "_do go on…_" look.

"Well – from the point of view of a bent copper it was all a bit of a balls-up, wasn't it?" Sheila ticked her thoughts off on her fingers as she spoke. "He thinks he's got a nice little set-up on the go and then it all drops to bits. First of all, he's just discovered that someone on the inside's robbing him blind. Then he pays McVey to sort it, and the useless beggar messes it up and comes away with nothing. Dunsmore and Richardson do a runner. Never mind, he must have thought, I'll get it all swept under the carpet and smoothed over – and less than a week after you come back to Northcote we've found Dunsmore's notebook, pulled poor Tom Ainslie out of the quarry and started interviewing everybody at Gold Star - including the folks he knows are ripping him off." She paused for breath before ending on a flourish: "No wonder he tried to get you off the case!"

Reid stared at her, the smoke wisping from the cigarette forgotten in his hand, as light suddenly dawned. That bloody stupid confrontation in the corridor over the paperwork and not keeping Pyle up to speed, when Pyle had bated him… and he'd gone for it, like an idiot. If it hadn't been for Boydeau and Coleman's quick thinking that would have been it – game over in every way conceivable. He propped his elbow on the arm of the chair and ran the fingers of his cigarette-free hand through his hair, his anger cooling as his brain began to grapple with this fresh perspective. "And here was me thinking he was just an arsehole. So what does he want now? Why is he still hanging round here? Richardson and Dunsmore are banged up, Empey's got another few days to go in hospital before he follows them. What's in it for Pyle?"

"How about the money Richardson and Empey creamed off?" Sheila suggested. "If McVey's telling the truth they must have stashed a pretty tidy amount before Pyle realised what was going on – and what with Empey torching Gold Star and us finding two lots of artillery Pyle and Kowalewska will be a bit short of capital at the moment."

Reid nodded, inhaling a lungful of smoke and hanging onto it for a few seconds before letting it out in a thoughtful cloud. "Where the hell is it, though? The cash, I mean." He scratched pensively at his jawline. "That amount of money's going to make a bit of a bump under the mattress, and we've been through Fairfax Road, Stafford's flat, the offices and Kowalewska's house. They're all clean."

"Well it can't be at his place, or he'd just go and get it. He wouldn't need McVey to run the errand, would he?" pointed out Boydeau. "I reckon McVey'll talk straight sense to us now, sarge. He was genuinely upset about Tom Ainslie and I suspect that might just tip the balance in our favour."

Sitting up, Reid finished his cigarette and began to stuff the packet and his lighter back into his pockets. "All right then. Let's go and see what else Gordon can tell us."

As they headed for the door, Boydeau said carefully: "Go a bit gentle on him, sarge. You gave him a shock earlier. He was in tears when I came out."

Reid blinked, startled. "Bloody hell. You reckon all that guff about not meaning to get Ainslie involved was true, then?"

She nodded. "I certainly think it was a friendship of sorts. McVey's harmless enough in his way. Just weak. I can imagine him latching onto Tom."

"Lucky Tom," Reid said dryly, pulling the door open and waving Sheila through ahead of him.

"I meant to ask," she added flippantly, stepping to the side a little to let a uniformed WPC with an armful of paperwork slip by them, "what happened to not bringing Tom Ainslie into the conversation unless it was relevant?"

"Don't do as I do, Detective _Constable _Boydeau – do as I say. Now then…" Reid opened the swing doors and nodded to McGowan, who was still hovering outside the interview room. "All quiet in there, lad?"

"Yes sir." McGowan said. "He's had his tea and a bit of a chat with Mr Lee. You'll be okay to go in."

Boydeau opened the door and smiled reassuringly at the Scotsman, whose eyes still looked watery. "Just a couple more questions, Mr McVey."

They'd hardly sat down before McVey, eyeing Reid nervously, said: "Pyle's after the money. Empey and Richardson's cut. He's got it intae his heid it's at Fairfax Road. Ah've told him it's no' there, but he'll no' have it. He's fit tae kill, ah'll tell ye. Ah reckon ah'm safer in here than oot there wi' him after me."

"I think you probably are, Gordon." Reid assured him. His tone wasn't gentle, exactly, but it was at least vaguely conciliatory. "Just run through the details of the conversation you had with him outside the hospice shop the other day and we'll look at what we can charge you with to keep you well out of his way."

From habit, McVey began: "Ah never…" and then gave up. "Aye, right enough," he agreed. "Ah'll tell ye. Ah jist want it finished."

"Don't we all, Gordon," Reid muttered as Sheila produced her notebook and settled her glasses on her nose. "Don't we all?"


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29**

"Right – that's it…" Boydeau dragged her glasses tiredly off her nose and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. "I'm thirsty, I'm worn-out, I'm hungry, and my brain's forgotten how to read. I'm going downstairs for some lunch. You coming?"

Reid looked up from the file he was perusing to glance at his watch. "Lunch? It's about half three in the afternoon!"

"And you last ate at…"

"Fair point." He slapped the folder shut and stood up, rolling his shoulders a few times before he picked up his jacket from the back of the chair. "This lot's not going to run off anywhere in our absence, is it?"

"Sadly enough, no." Sheila spoke with dislike in her tone – since their confessional with McVey had ended five hours earlier they'd been ploughing back through the notes and information they'd amassed on the case, trying to find an indication of where Empey and Richardson might have hidden their ill-gotten gains so that they could pre-empt Pyle's next move. Thorough though they had been they had so far found nothing, and it felt very much as though the weird, stop-start nature of this case was about to assert itself again. "Refresh my memory," she said, as they headed along the corridor. "Why are we not questioning our two key suspects?"

"Empey's due to be discharged in a couple of days into our custody," Reid answered. "Till then I suspect the doctors are going to take a dim view of us interrogating a coronary patient. As for Richardson – why should he tell us anything? If he can't have that cash, he's going to make bloody sure no-one else gets it either."

"Surely it's worth trying him anyway?" suggested Boydeau as they pushed through the doors of the canteen and collected a couple of trays. "Maybe he'll tell us just so that he can have the satisfaction of knowing Pyle won't get it."

"Maybe." Reid plonked his tray onto the counter and surveyed the lean pickings gloomily. "And maybe he'll just laugh in our faces."

Sheila began sorting through the wrapped sandwiches, peering at the labels of several and discarding them before she was satisfied enough to make a selection. "You've got to feel for Empey a bit," she mused. "Elbowed to the fringes of his own dodgy operation by Pyle and Richardson, gets so scared when we start sniffing round that he torches his business to cover his tracks, tries to leave the country, gets caught and then nearly gets abducted at gunpoint… presumably that was Pyle and Kowalewska trying to get to the money, too." She passed a plate through to the girl behind the counter to be filled with chips. "No wonder the poor sod had a heart attack!"

Reid hooked a couple of doughnuts onto a side plate and added them to his own tray-full. "It's got to be Fairfax Road," he said. "Richardson's owned that house for years; it's been the place he's stashed stuff since before he was nicked the first time back in the late eighties."

"Well, the money's not there, sarge – we know that. We've had that place to bits."

They found a table in a quiet corner and sat down, both settling easily into the routine of throwing ideas around over canteen food, teacups, little plastic milk-pots and packets of sugar.

"Pyle knows that, too, though." Reid stirred two sugars into his tea and began to attack his slightly dried-out lasagne with the side of his fork. "He's ordered enough of those searches in his time. And he still thinks there's something worth having."

Sheila swallowed a mouthful of sandwich and speared some chips. "Changing the subject totally, before I shoot you and then myself due to diminished responsibility brought on by sheer frustration… what are you doing at the weekend?"

Reid eyed her in surprise, a forkful of food halfway to his mouth. "Not a lot, probably. I'll see the kids whichever afternoon I'm not working."

"Only Tom – my Tom, that is – he's got a new job, and he was going to have a family meal out to celebrate on Saturday night, but Caroline's working nights and Mum's had to go over to stay with her sister in Dagenham cos she's not well. So that leaves me and Tom, and he asked me to ask you if you were up for it. His words, not mine!"

Reid shoved the forkful into his mouth and used the chewing time to think. Before Denton he'd been more of a night-out-down-the-pub man; since Denton his evenings had been pretty much him and the telly. Still, with Sheila there he and Tom could both be sure it wouldn't accidentally turn into an evening of drinking. And if the lad was making an effort to turn a corner he ought to at least back him up. He cleared his mouth of the last of the salad and nodded. "Okay then. Sounds good."

Boydeau almost managed to cover up her astonishment completely. "That's… great. He'll be pleased. I think he's thinking of a curry night, if that works for you."

"Just as long as clubbing doesn't come into it anywhere, I'm easy," Reid said, enjoying the fact that just for once he'd caught her unawares.

"Over my dead body!" His DC reached for the teapot and topped up both their cups. "That just makes me feel old. I went with him once and spent the whole night saying "who's this, then?" and "what did you say they were called?" I'm not sure who was more fed up by the end of it, him or me." She shuddered. "I leave that side of things to Caroline."

Reid was about to reply when a movement caught his eye and he turned to see Leo Gent hurrying across the room. Boydeau followed his gaze and muttered something just audible enough to be identified as a very rude word; Reid wondered what that was all about and filed it away as something to ask later. "What's up, Leo?" he asked aloud as the younger man reached their table.

Gent grabbed a nearby chair and dragged it across so that he could sit on it and lean forward. "I think we've got a sniff," he said. "But you're not going to like it…"

*******************************

"…twisted, nasty, conniving, warped, manipulative…" Reid had run out of expletives before starting on the adjectives, and his muttered explosion now tailed off for want of breath rather than any calming of his mood.

He, Gent and Boydeau stood in a half-circle by Hannigan's desk, looking at four photographs. There were two people in each picture. In the first two, one of the individuals concerned was Jonathon Pyle. The third and fourth pictures showed Renata Kowalewska and Richard Stafford respectively. The common element between them was the second individual in each photograph, who was the same in every case. Pyle's eldest daughter.

Reid pointed down at the pictures and looked at Gent. "Well?"

To do Gent some justice there was no trace of flippancy or swagger about him for the moment. "It was Claire who twigged it," he said. "Mrs P. walked the kids to school this morning – like she has done every morning since this surveillance started - but she was running a bit late, so most of the teachers had let their classes in and instead of her hanging about at the gates waiting to see her kids in safe, she went straight back off. We went down the road a bit to turn round, and as we came back past the school there's the young 'un trotting out of the gates, bold as brass. Claire said to stop the car, so we hung about and sure enough…" he tapped a finger down at the first photograph "… two minutes later Daddy comes strolling along."

Boydeau put her glasses on and picked up the photo to study it more closely. The girl and her father were walking along the street, away from the school and towards the car from which the photos had been taken. They were holding hands, and she was looking up at him adoringly, clearly chattering away nineteen to the dozen. Pyle was staring straight ahead, his face apparently emotionless.

"He'd parked his car round the corner," Gent went on, "so we followed him and he stopped twice. Both times, she hopped out and went for a bit of a walk, and we took a couple of snaps."

He turned the other two pictures round slightly so that Sheila had a clearer view. The first showed the girl handing an envelope to a rather nervous-looking Stafford; in the second she was sitting at one of the outdoor tables of a smart coffee-shop, sipping at a milk-shake. Kowalewska, seated opposite, was leaning forward with the patronising expression that people with no experience of children wear when trying to communicate with individuals under the age of sixteen.

"When they'd done the two stops, he took her back to school, dropped her off, and in she went," Gent concluded, his tone one of grudging admiration for the ingeniously simple plan.

"How old is she?" Reid asked suddenly.

"Nine," answered Boydeau.

"Oh for God's sake!" Reid rummaged for his cigarettes, realised he was in his office and that Gent was present, and contented himself with throwing packet and lighter down on the desk with some force. "What the hell were the school doing letting her out? They must know what's going on with her Dad – they can't possibly be that stupid!"

"I can ring them and check," Sheila said, "but I don't suppose for a minute that Pyle identified himself to the school. One possibility is that Mrs Pyle _is_ in on it and she wrote a note saying the little girl had a doctor's appointment or some such thing." She saw Reid pull a dubious face and remembered Lisa Pyle's maternal anger at the thought of her children finding policemen searching the house when they returned for their lunch. "Perhaps it's more likely that Pyle and Kowalewska just faked an appointment card for the dentist. That wouldn't arouse any suspicion…" she tailed off, realising that she was beginning to theorise to no purpose. "What do you want to do, sarge?"

Reid stared down at the photos, his fingers automatically beginning to twiddle with the elastic band on his wrist. What he'd _like _to do involved Pyle, some concrete blocks and some very deep water. As it was… "We're going to have to bring the kid in," he said. "Her and her Mum. Sheila, this is one for you and Claire initially. I don't think Mrs Pyle will cut up rough, but if she does, ring for backup. It's not going to be pretty, but I can't see we've got any choice. We know Pyle, Kowalewska and Stafford are all in the area, and if the boss-man's passing messages round I'm guessing they're going to make a move pretty soon. We've got McVey, so that route's cut off. Leo, I want you to go over to Pentonville and see if your special brand of charm can get anything out of Richardson about whether Pyle's really looking for money - and if not, what the hell else he might be after." Turning to his desk he searched for a moment and pulled a folder from the pile by the telephone. "Here's the file on what McVey's given us. See what the ex Mr Toffolo says to that."

Gent departed and Sheila hovered for a moment in the doorway. "I'll ring the school before I go," she said, "and see if there's been any word from Mrs Pyle about this morning. I'll let you know what they say, and then I'll go and find Claire and we'll get Mrs Pyle and the little girl."

Reid nodded, collecting the photographs together, and as the door slammed behind her he stared down at them, chin sunk on chest. He'd disliked Pyle at first meeting, and during the unfolding of the case he had grown to despise him. As he looked down at the smiling face of the little girl in the pictures, he was uncomfortably aware that his feelings towards her father were rapidly developing into hatred.

**************************

Boydeau, feeling distinctly frayed at the edges, had never been so grateful for Gryff Coleman's unflappability in her entire life. As they came in through the doors, Claire Jordan supporting Lisa Pyle and Boydeau shepherding a wary Amy, the genial desk sergeant swung up the flap and emerged to greet them.

"Afternoon, folks. Can you just all take a seat round here…" he opened the door to a small, comfortable room containing half a dozen green armchairs which was usually used as the waiting area for visiting dignitaries "… and I'll give DS Reid a call and let him know you've arrived. I've got the kettle on – can I get you a cold drink, young lady?"

Amy Pyle regarded Coleman suspiciously, and then clearly decided he was a friend. "I'd like a Coke, please," she said, glancing quickly at her mother as though this treat wasn't always allowed. Lisa was too sunk in misery to notice, and her daughter looked back at Coleman with an air of indecision.

"Come on!" Gryff held the door open. "You come with me and help me put the things on the tray." As Amy obeyed he glanced over the top of her head and mouthed "All right?" at Jordan and Boydeau.

Sheila shrugged and waggled a hand non-commitally, glancing at the almost catatonic Mrs Pyle. The DI's wife's reaction to their news had been bordering on outright hysteria, and for several minutes Boydeau had thought that they really might have to call for backup. Claire had called Suzy Green, the family liaison officer, and with her help they'd calmed Lisa Pyle sufficiently to walk her to the waiting car. Amy's twin, Sally, was fortuitously sleeping at a friend's house that night, and Alex and little Kieran had been left with the next-door neighbour who usually babysat for the children.

"He'll only be a minute," Coleman said. "We thought this'd be nicer than the interview rooms – bit less scary. Bear with me…" He disappeared in the direction of the drinks machine and Suzy Green, who was waiting there to keep Amy occupied until Reid had had a chance to question her mother.

******************************

"Not the kids. He wouldn't use our children." Lisa Pyle spoke woodenly, not making eye-contact with any of them. Reid, who had arrived with the ubiquitous Mr Lee in tow, laid the photographs on the coffee-table in front of her one at a time and gave her a few moments to take in what she was looking at.

"He's used the kids, and he's used you, Mrs Pyle," Sheila said. "He's used your loyalty, and your trust. He's betrayed you and he's manipulated Amy. You don't owe him anything any more."

"He always looked after us," the other woman's tone was desperate. "Even when we first had the twins and money was tight, he pulled extra shifts and made sure we never went short. And all those bonuses he got for overtime…"

"Mrs Pyle," Reid cut in gently. He didn't like the woman much, but no-one deserved the treatment she'd had from her husband. "We've checked back – the money wasn't from overtime. Or bonuses." She stared at him in horror. "Hush money, blackmail, fencing stolen goods – it's been going on for years." He could see her shivering all over, but pressed on resolutely. She needed to hear it all. "The money he's been giving you has been from various illegal sources. And now he's gone in over his head, and he's pulled your daughter into it with him. A nineteen year old boy's dead because your husband fancies himself as a criminal mastermind. Do the right thing, Mrs Pyle. Help us find him before someone else gets hurt."

"I don't know where he is." Her voice was the thinnest thread of a whisper. "I swear to you I don't know. I haven't seen him or spoken to him since he disappeared."

Boydeau laid a hand on her arm, and the woman turned her head like a sleepwalker. "Can we talk to Amy, Mrs Pyle?" Sheila asked. "She saw her Dad this morning, and it's just possible that she might know where we can find him. You can be present the whole time to make sure we don't upset Amy, but it's really important that we locate your husband."

For a few moments Lisa stared blankly at her, and Boydeau began to wonder if the DI's wife had even heard her. Then, very slowly, she nodded. Claire Jordan rose quietly to her feet and opened the door to signal to Suzy Green. The young policewoman came over, hand in hand with Amy, and led the little girl into the room.

The minute Mrs Pyle clapped eyes on her daughter she burst into tears. Sheila was on hand with tissues and the offer of a cup of tea, hoping to calm things down before Amy became upset, and to her credit Mrs Pyle made a valiant effort to bring her sobbing under control. "I'm fine, sweetheart, don't worry," she choked out, blowing her nose and accepting the proffered drink. Amy stared at her mother in confusion and then looked around at the other adults in the room, her lip trembling slightly.

Reid signalled to Suzy, who slipped an arm round Amy's shoulders and walked her forward toward the centre of the semicircle of chairs where Reid was sitting. "Don't worry, Amy, there's nothing to be scared of," she said. "This is Detective Sergeant Reid – he wants to ask you some questions."

Amy sat down and looked Reid in the eye. "Have you made my Mum cry?" she demanded.

_Somebody's inherited her Dad's subtle manner_ Reid thought, inwardly amused. Aloud he said: "Your Mum's crying because she's found out something that upset her. I think you might be able to help me sort some of the problem out."

"Is it because Dad talked to me yesterday but not to her?"

Impressed, Reid decided it was time to stop underestimating this one. "That's part of it. Did he ask you not to tell anybody you'd seen him?"

Amy nodded. "Even Sally. And I tell Sally everything, but Dad said I was the sensible one and anybody else would mess it up. He was lying, though." She folded her arms and kicked at the leg of the chair beside her. "It was easy – anyone could have done it."

"Why do you think he wanted you to keep it a secret?" Reid asked. He knew this wasn't very conventional, but Amy seemed happy enough to discuss it and so long as the conversation was taking them in the right direction he was happy to follow her lead. He glanced across at Lee; the solicitor was making notes but appeared unconcerned.

"Because he's doing something wrong," the child said bluntly. "Otherwise he wouldn't mind anybody knowing."

"What did he ask you to do?" Reid asked.

"I had to take a letter from my Dad to a little fat man," Amy said, "and then a lady bought me a milk-shake and she told me something to tell my Dad."

"Can you remember what it was?" Reid asked, feeling his pulse beginning to speed up.

"Course I can," Amy replied with a tiny hint of scorn. "She said to tell him that he had to pay a visit to Uncle Frank in hospital."

Reid managed not to swear aloud. "Have you got an Uncle Frank, Amy?" he asked, and she shook her head. He glanced across at Lisa Pyle, who appeared mystified, and then at Boydeau and Jordan, who both looked slightly thunderstruck.

"Are you going to arrest my Dad?" Amy asked.

"Probably," Reid answered.

"Good!" the girl said firmly. "Because he ran off and left us and then _he_ made Mum cry. I'm sorry I thought it was you. Have I helped you sort the problem?"

"I think you have." Reid said.

"Good," she declared again, and went over to put her arms around her mother's neck. Suzy Green went across to sit with them.

Reid stood up and inclined his head toward the door, and Boydeau and Jordan rose to their feet. "You've both been very helpful," he said, looking at Lisa Pyle. "I'll get someone to drive you home as soon as you're ready. If you'll excuse us…"

"That poor woman and her kids!" Boydeau burst out as they hurried in the direction of CID. "How many people's lives has Pyle wrecked by getting mixed up in this business?"

"God knows," Reid replied tersely. "And if we don't get to Frank Empey before they do, that'll be another one. Empey's had one heart attack – can you imagine what'll happen when he sees Pyle come stalking down the ward?" He had a brief mental image of Pyle in a long black cloak, clutching a scythe as he loomed over the cowering form of Empey in a hospital bed, and wondered whether they were about to find out that it was actually possible to scare someone to death.


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30**

By the time they reached CID's corridor, Reid had begun to issue instructions: "Claire, get hold of Nick Lemon and somebody else and go after Mrs Pyle. Watch the house. I wouldn't put it past Haemorrhoids to have a go at taking the kids when he finally runs for it. Sheila, get on the phone to East Middlesex Infirmary and tell them we're sending someone down to watch the ward. I'm going to see if the DCI's in and then I'll be in my office."

As the two WDCs peeled off on their separate errands, Reid continued along the corridor to BB's door and knocked, but received no reply. _That's typical. The one time I actually do want to talk to the pen-pushing twerp he's not there. _Making his way back along the corridor to his own office he rang down to Gryff at the front desk. "Summoned to a meeting with the top brass again, from the look on his face as he went out," came the reply to his query. "No idea when he'll be back, sorry. Those meetings go on forever – he was out most of the day at one the back end of last week."

Reid put the phone down and stared at the stack of files on his desk, thinking. Brocklehurst had been very clear – Reid was needed at the station and couldn't be spared to go gallivanting around London. He should notify the DCI before he went anywhere, and he needn't expect to get automatic assent, either. On the other hand, if BB wasn't back till late, then it might be _too_ late for Frank Empey. Damn. It was at this point that Boydeau knocked and opened his door almost simultaneously, and the look on her face had him out of his chair and halfway across the floor before he'd finished saying "What's up?"

"We've missed them. Empey's gone."

He skidded to a halt. "_What?!?"_

"I've just spoken to the sister in charge of his ward, and she said we didn't need to send anyone; they'd already discharged him into the care of two police officers who'd come to pick him up and move him to another hospital."

"Oh, you've got to be bloody joking. Which idiot…"

Sheila shook her head, her expression unreadable. "It's not the hospital's fault, Sarge. They asked for ID and everything, they got all the paperwork. She'd even written the names of the two officers down." She hesitated and he leaned against Hannigan's desk and gestured irritably for her to go on. She gave a sour little smile. "DC Boydeau and DS Reid."

Reid put both hands over his face. "You have _got_ to be kidding me!"

"I wish." Boydeau sounded as if she didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Pyle must have had copies of everything he needed – probably part of that stash of stuff we hauled out of his house. They wouldn't even have had to get uniforms…" she gestured at Reid's jeans and shirt and her own neat suit.

Reid lowered his hands and stared up at the ceiling for a moment. He had gone beyond swearing and lashing out to a fury so immense that he felt totally calm. It wouldn't last, but while it did he could make the most of it. "How long ago?"

"About an hour, she said."

"Then let's get over the hospital and ask some questions. Pyle needs something from Empey, so unless he's dropped dead on them they've got to get him to a place where they can talk without being interrupted." He snatched up his jacket and headed for the door, still talking, Sheila hard on his heels. "I'll drive, you ring Gent. Get him to ask Richardson what Pyle would want Frank Empey for. And see if he can find out anything about where they'd go."

***************************

Leo Gent might be a prat, but he was a prat with a silver tongue, Boydeau had to give him that. "It's not the cash Pyle's after, Sheila," he told her over a crackling mobile phone connection as Reid cursed them on their way through the rush-hour traffic. "Empey and Richardson stashed what they'd nicked in a safety-deposit box. And then they hid the key."

"Don't suppose he found out where?" Reid asked when Sheila relayed the information.

She shook her head, listening, then said: "Thanks, Leo," and ended the call, putting the phone away in her jacket. "That's all we're getting there, sarge, sorry. Apparently Richardson thinks the whole thing's incredibly funny; he let on about the key, but Gent thinks he did that on purpose because he likes the idea of us running about trying to find it before Pyle does…" She broke off as her phone began to trill again and dug impatiently for it in her pocket. "Hello?"

Coleman, on the other end of the line, sounded uncharacteristically irritable. "Where the hell did you two go?" he demanded. "I've messages from the DCI here; he's rung me three times in the last ten minutes wanting to speak to Reid."

"Sorry, Gryff. Hang on a minute…" she pressed the mute button and turned to Reid. "It's Gryff – the DCI's been giving him grief wanting to talk to you."

"Perfect," said Reid through his teeth, hunting for a space in the crowded hospital car-park. "Tell him BB's better off not knowing where we are for the minute. I'd rather keep this cock-up well below the horizon till we can work out what we're going to do next. If there's anything really important, write it down and tell him I'll get back to him."

"Gosh, thanks for that." Sheila turned back to her phone. "Gryff? If you could tell the DCI that DS Reid's sorry he didn't tell him he was leaving the office, but there's been a very important development in one of his cases and he wanted to look into it personally. _Of course_ those were his exact words! Just let me grab my book and you can tell me the messages, I'll pass them on." A few seconds of industrious scribbling followed, and then she thanked the desk sergeant and hung up.

Reid pulled on the handbrake and half-turned to face her. "What did the Oracle reveal?"

She looked at her notes. "The gist of it is: _Don't leave the office till you've spoken to me._"

"Pity we didn't get that message a bit earlier, isn't it?" Grabbing his lighter out of the glove-compartment Reid swung the door open, lit a cigarette and heaved himself out of the car. "Come on – if I'm going to get a bollocking I want something to show for it.

***************************

As they reached the top of the slope that led up to the hospital's main entrance, Reid looked at the No Smoking notices and reluctantly crushed the end of his fag underfoot. Shoving the door open he looked round at Sheila. "Ward 23, did you say?"

"Yep." She pointed to the signs fixed to the wall above the doors leading out of the reception area. "Over there, to the right. And the ward manager I spoke to is called Philippa Henry."

"I'll get a word with her on the QT, if I can," Reid said as they hurried along the corridor following the arrows to their destination. "Can you speak to some of the auxiliaries, porters, people like that? I want to know if our doppelgangers went out of the front entrance, what vehicle they used, whether anyone saw which way they set off, something someone might have overheard one of them say. Anything at all that might tip us off about where they've gone."

Sheila nodded her assent, and as they reached the ward she slowed her pace and began to amble along in a more approachable manner, searching the scene for a likely candidate.

Reid, meanwhile, approached the nurses' station and asked for Sister Henry, who proved to be a capable-looking West Indian lady with a brisk manner and an authoritarian look in her eye. She seemed irritated at Reid asking to speak to her privately, but when he flashed his ID at her she sighed: "You'd better come this way," and led him to a tiny office. There was barely room for two of them in the space between the desk and the door; Philippa Henry sat down and Reid propped himself against the filing cabinet.

"I don't mean to be rude, Detective Sergeant," the nurse began, firmly, "but the work on this ward has already been interrupted by your department today, and as far as I'm aware I have no other criminals under my care. I'd appreciate it if we could keep this brief."

"I'll keep it as short as I can," Reid said. "You had a visit this morning from two police officers who supervised the removal of Mr Francis Empey from this hospital across to Walden General, is that correct?"

She nodded, still looking as though she had better things to do.

"Can you describe them for me?" He saw the look on her face and held up one hand to forestall a protest. "I'm really not just wasting your time here. Bear with me."

Frowning, half in annoyance and half in concentration, Sister Henry thought for a moment. "He was thin and dark-haired, with glasses and the lady was tall, good looking, very confident, with a slight accent. They were very efficient and polite and all their paperwork was in order. I checked it myself."

"Yeah, well it would be," Reid said grimly. He took his warrant card back out and passed it across the table so that she could look at his name.

She picked it up and glanced at it crossly, then did a double take and stared at Reid. He nodded. "That's me," he confirmed, "That…" he pointed out of the window to where Sheila was talking to one of the porters "… is DC Boydeau."

Phillipa Henry's eyes widened. "Then who the hell was that this morning?" she burst out, shocked out of the protective shell of her busy professionalism.

"That's what I'm trying to ascertain," Reid said in a businesslike tone, though he'd recognised the descriptions of Pyle and Kowalewska at once; Stafford must have been driving, he thought. "Can I see your copies of the paperwork?" She rummaged on the desk and handed it over, and he chuckled sourly. "Not your fault, Sister – this is a very convincing copy. Whoever made this knew what they were doing." _Nicking it out of the stationery cupboard and stashing it in his office at home. Clever sod._

"I'm deeply concerned about this, Detective Sergeant." Sister Henry was back in proficient mode.

"I'm not exactly holding a street party myself," Reid replied. "If the papers get hold of this one, they're going to have a right field day. I need to know where they've gone, cos you can bet your right arm it wasn't to Walden General. And Mr Empey's continuing good health isn't likely to be a major concern for them, either."

The nurse stared into the middle distance for a few moments and then shook her head. "I'm truly sorry, but I can't think of anything else I can tell you that would be of any help. I looked over the paperwork for them, but it was the ward staff who organised the actual physical transfer and I see that you've already asked your colleague to talk to them. Obviously, speak to anyone you need to speak to, although I would ask that you let me know if you need to take someone away from their duties for any length of time."

"What about Empey's health generally?" Reid asked

A shadow of concern crossed her eyes. "He's not a well man. He's on medication, which they won't have taken with them, and he was due to be assessed for surgery before he was discharged."

Reid nodded, shoving himself upright. "I think that's all I need from you for now. Thanks for the help."

"What little there was of it." She stood up and moved to open the door, stopping with her hand on the handle. "I apologise for my manner initially, Detective Sergeant. I assumed there had been some sort of administrative error, and I was being presumptuous. I can't promise to keep this as confidential as it should be, but I'll do my best. I'm sure we could both do without the media attention."

"Too bloody right we could!" Reid said with feeling. Out on the corridor he could see Sheila still deep in conversation with the porter, scribbling in her book. He hoped she was having more luck than he was. "Which one's Empey's bed?" he asked as they emerged from the office.

"Room Two," Philippa Henry replied. "The sheets haven't been changed yet, so your crime-scene should be untouched."

Reid crossed to the little side-room which contained two beds, one empty but neatly made and the other clearly suffering from recent occupation. He looked under the pillows, among the sheets, around the mattress and then crouched down to rummage in the bedside cabinet. He wasn't sure what he was searching for, exactly, but it never hurt to check.

"Any joy?" asked Sheila from the doorway.

He finished running his hand round the inside of the cabinet and shook his head. "No. How about you?"

"Some," she said. "The porter I was talking to pushed Empey's wheelchair down to the entrance and he saw them all getting into a car as he was bringing the chair back in. It caught his eye because it wasn't a police car; he was expecting a patrol vehicle, I think. He remembered part of the registration and he gave me a halfway decent description, so it's somewhere to start."

"Good!" Reid banged the cupboard shut and straightened up. "Let's go and see if we can make any headway from that, then."

As he walked back round the bed his foot caught something small which had been on the floor by the table leg and sent it spinning across the polished surface. Sheila put out a toe and trapped it and they both stared downward. It was a key fob. She pulled out an evidence bag, stooped and picked up the little leather tag with the bag over her hand as a glove, turning the bag inside out so that their find dropped down inside without touching her fingers.

"Snapped off," she said, holding it out for Reid's inspection.

He peered at the broken loop on the top and then took the bag from her hand and turned it over. "Hello…" he muttered, and held it up in his turn so that she could see the logo and name of a car dealership printed on it. "Contact them first," he said, "and see if this is where they got the car from. And if it is, find out where the branch is that sold it. That might give us an area to start hunting in – especially if they can give us a full description of the car."

He threw the packet back to Boydeau and she caught it and put it carefully into her bag. "Back to the station?" she asked

"Not yet." He gave the room a last assessing stare and then made an "after you" gesture towards the door. "If I go back now I'm not going to get out again without a face-off with Brocklehurst. And if you think I'm letting you take all the glory on this one you can think again."

Sheila, heading for the corridor, glanced back over her shoulder. "Never expected you to for a minute. I know my place."

Following in her wake, he grinned. "Can I have that in writing?"


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31**

"That's great…thanks very much," finished Sheila, ending the call on her mobile. She turned to Reid and explained, "The manager at Parkside Autos clearly remembers selling a black Lexus RX to somebody matching Miss Kowalewska's description – probably because she was so nonchalant about forking over twenty grand in cash."

This news elicited a derisive snort from Reid as he accelerated along the by-pass leading from the hospital to Fairfax Road. "They really _are_ getting careless; Pyle's sent her out to buy the car and forgotten to tell her not to draw any attention to herself - they'd have been better off with a cheap old Mondeo. I take it you got a registration number for it?"

"Sarge, I'm hurt you should even ask," replied Boydeau in mock dismay. "I'll call in and have it flagged."

"Well, chances are we're going to see it before anyone else does, but there's no harm in giving everyone a heads-up." Changing down to second gear, he turned the corner into Fairfax Road. His heart sank as he immediately spotted the Lexus outside number 32, and he pulled over behind some other parked cars about eight houses away.

Sheila said nothing, but cast a worried glance at her sergeant.

He stared back at her for a moment, then said, "What? D'you think we should 'wait for backup', as they say on the telly?"

"Only they never do," answered Sheila, rolling her eyes in despair.

Reid slammed the car into reverse, manoeuvred out of the parking space, and drove back out of the street. He took two right turns which brought them into Coventry Place, whose houses backed onto Fairfax Road. He knew 32 adjoined the golf course and woods, so the last house on the right here would be their best bet. He drew up outside it and got out to speak to the owner, who was working in the garden.

"Afternoon, sir," Reid introduced himself and flashed his warrant card. "I wonder if I could possibly have a look out of your back bedroom window?"

**********

There was no doubt about it: somebody was in the house on Fairfax Road. What was left of the back door had been thrown wide open, and every so often something such as a chair or box would be tossed out into the garden. A substantial pile of household debris was beginning to build up.

"I've got a pair of binoculars, if that'd help," offered the homeowner.

"That'd be very helpful, Mr. Carey, thank you," said Reid as he strained to try and see in a window.

"Would you like some more tea? And I think I've got some fruit cake somewhere…"

"Oh, thank you, but we're fine as we are," replied Boydeau. "That's most kind of you." The elderly widower bustled off and soon returned with the promised binoculars. Reid peered through them and passed them to Sheila.

"If we call it in, Brocklehurst'll want to know what the hell I'm up to, and he'll more than likely insist I go and see him at once. But there's no way I'm missing this."

"So we do it single-handed?" Sheila asked sceptically.

A full minute passed before Reid replied. "If we're able to approach the house unseen, which is perfectly doable, given the lane that runs between the backs of these houses, plus the high fence, I don't see why we can't at least take a look. We needn't go in without backup…" - here Sheila snorted softly, which he ignored – "…but there's no point in calling for it unless we're sure Pyle's in there. He's the one we want. If SO19 go charging in and all they find is Stafford…" He didn't have to finish the sentence.

Boydeau considered this and raised the field glasses once again to her eyes. She made a small sound and said, "That was definitely Kowalewska at the kitchen door." Lowering the glasses, she looked at Reid and continued, "Well, I'm up for it if you are. I mean, how hard can it be? After all, they're only dealing in Russian assault rifles."

Reid raised a reproachful eyebrow. "Any sign of guns and we'll call for the Armed Response Unit. But while Pyle may be flogging the things, I'm pretty sure that he wouldn't have a clue about how to use them. Of course," he conceded, as Sheila tried to interject, "that doesn't preclude them packing smaller weapons. But the odds are in our favour…"

"_Please _don't say we've got the element of surprise on our side," Sheila finally managed to say as Reid took a breath. He had the decency to look suitably chastened, albeit with a smile trying to sneak out round the corners of his mouth.

"Well, we'd better get a move on or they'll be gone before we even get downstairs," said Sheila. "Don't forget to put your mobile on silent." She was performing this important task as she spoke, and Reid followed suit. They left the bedroom, found Mr. Carey, and explained that they were going to take a look around outside. He unlocked his back gate to give them access to the lane, and they strolled casually towards the back of Richardson's house.

Sheila had taken off her suit jacket in an attempt to look less like a police officer, while Reid had gone for a similar effect with rolled-up shirt sleeves and no tie. Boydeau stole a furtive look at herself and her sergeant and wondered what on earth they were thinking –Kowalewska and heaven knew who else were in that house, and certainly the lawyer knew both her and Reid by sight.

The nearer they got to number 32, the more they could hear of what was being said as voices carried across the quiet summer's day. A lot of it was unrepeatable, and it became apparent that Kowalewska was not pleased at the lack of success in finding whatever they were looking for.

Now at the back gate, they were able to eavesdrop quite comfortably. Reid sat down against the fence, and motioned for Sheila to do the same. "This might take a while," he mouthed to her as they listened to the conversation, and soon detected Jonathan Pyle's dulcet tones.

"…_not _going to take all bloody day about this! Stafford – are you still trying to get hold of Richardson?" Something indiscernible was said, then Kowalewska spoke.

"Jonathan, I think Frank's passed out again."

"Leave him. He'll probably peg it anyway, which suits me fine. It wouldn't take two minutes for him to grass us up, the state he's in."

Boydeau looked in horror at Reid, who got to his feet, pulled out his phone and started to walk out of earshot to make his call. While he requested an ambulance as well as some officers to assist, Sheila kept an eye on the back door. The voices inside the house were growing fainter. She signalled to Reid to come back, and he hung up and sprinted towards her. The back gate opened without any difficulty, and they crept quickly up the path and into the kitchen.

Once inside, they could hear male and female voices upstairs, as well as footfalls. Reid stuck his head round the corner into the dining room and a sudden feeling of _déjà vu_ swept over him that involved a breeze block and Gordon McVey. He grinned to himself, noted that the room was empty, and nodded to Sheila to follow him in. They could wait there until the rest of the party showed up; in fact, he was sure he could hear the wail of sirens in the distance.

Rapid footsteps sounded on the stairs as Pyle and Kowalewska descended. They, too, had heard the approaching emergency services and had apparently decided to try and leave minus Stafford and Empey. There was nothing else for it. Reid stepped out into the hallway and said loudly and with authority, "Stay where you are, please."

Sheila, too, walked into the hall and saw Pyle swing round, gawp, and make a lunge for the front door handle. He was halted in his tracks by Renata Kowalewska's hand. "No," she said quietly. The magic worked again, and Boydeau found herself wondering if the solicitor had actually hypnotised Pyle, so able was she to control him.

Kowalewska put her arm around Pyle's shoulders and, to the amazement of all present, produced a handgun which she then pointed at her lover. "We're going," she announced with no trace of emotion, "and you will not stop us."

"What are you doing?!" exclaimed Pyle in disbelief and horror. "Just shoot _them_ and be done with it!"

Ignoring his protestations, Kowalewska opened the front door and accompanied him out to the Lexus. Reid and Boydeau watched, motionless, from the doorway as she opened the passenger seat and directed Pyle to get in. She walked round to the driver's side and as if from nowhere, a voice rang out, "Armed police! Throw your gun away from you and lie face down on the ground!"

Kowalewska whirled round to try to find the source of the voice, and saw the Armed Response Unit's Trojan less than a hundred yards down the street. Boydeau gave a sharp intake of breath as the solicitor aimed her revolver at the armed officers.

"No!" screamed Sheila, but she was unheard as a shot echoed round the empty street and Renata Kowalewska crumpled to the ground. Reid grabbed both Boydeau's arms from behind to prevent her running out and becoming a second target.

"You have to wait till they call it clear!" he said, and turned Sheila to look at him so that she could see the urgency in his face. "_Wait!_" He managed to propel her backwards and sit her at the foot of the stairs.

Reid was suddenly aware that Pyle had left the confines of the car, and was walking as if to meet the uniformed officers who were converging on number 32. He had his Met ID card out and Reid knew what was happening. He, too, produced his warrant card, shouted for the nearest officer who knew him to come over, and pointed out the receding figure of the ex-DI. He was headed for Lyne Woods.


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32**

Once more, Reid deeply regretted his 20-a-day habit as he jogged up the wooded path in the wake of his errant DI. He could hear shouts from back down on the housing estate, and either his imagination was playing tricks on him, or there was a faint echo of a woman's voice calling, "Sarge!"

This was a different track to the one he had taken what felt like a year ago, in the hunt for Paul Dunsmore. Reid entered a small clearing among the trees where he finally bent over, hands on knees, and took in lungfuls of air. In the relative quiet, he was able to hear someone crashing about in the woods to his left, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out which direction the quarry lay in. He didn't fancy a repeat performance of last time; no chance he'd be that lucky twice in a row.

He straightened himself up and carried on, not quite so painfully now that the ground had levelled out, following the sound of what must be Pyle trying to find a way out of the forest. Reid stopped again, head to one side to try and pinpoint the source of the noise, and his blood ran cold as he turned about and realised Pyle was standing between two large oaks, not twenty feet away.

"Come to take me in, have you?" sneered the fugitive.

"What do you think?" retorted Reid automatically, without sarcasm.

"I don't expect you've come this far to tell me I'm free to go," was the cynical answer. Neither man moved. Reid was conscious of the sound of many voices drawing closer, coming up the hill. He nodded in their direction.

"Reinforcements are on the way," he said, almost conversationally. If he hadn't been so out-of-breath, he'd have taken out his Rothmans and lit up. As it was, he leaned against the nearest tree, facing his adversary.

"Come on, then, if you're such a good copper, why don't we make it a fair fight?" mocked his former boss, turning on his heels and disappearing again.

_This is bloody ridiculous_, thought Reid. _Where the hell is there for him to go?_ The answer lit up like a neon sign accompanied by a clanging bell. He_ doesn't know how near the quarry might be…_

"PYLE!" he bellowed, charging after him into the undergrowth. "Watch out for the drop!" The trees thinned, and Reid came face to face with his adversary at the top of a very familiar incline which ran into the brambles.

"Drop?" Pyle studied Reid's expression, trying to decide whether or not he was lying.

Reid pointed down the slope in front of them. "The quarry where we found Tom Ainslie…it's just down there, behind the bushes. I almost went over the edge myself the first time I came up here."

A sneer crossed the other man's face. "Nearly a goner, were you? Pity." He snorted scornfully at the missed opportunity and started to walk in a line parallel to the quarry rim. When he faced Reid again, the hatred had turned to despair. "Renata?" he asked, in dread of the answer.

"I don't know," Reid answered. "They were sending an ambulance for Empey, so maybe the paramedics…" He trailed off as Pyle started to move closer to the bracken cover. "Watch it," he warned. "It's a hell of a long way down."

"Maybe that'd be for the best," stated Pyle, in a matter-of-fact manner. "After all, even if she does make it, we're not likely to be seeing that much of each other, are we?"

"Why would you want to, after that stunt she pulled back at the house?" asked an incredulous Reid.

Pyle laughed. "That was just to con you into letting us leave. She'd never have…" He swallowed hard, looking less convinced than he sounded. "So how close is this quarry, then?" he asked, trying to peer over the bushes.

"Too close. Back off. The edge probably isn't too solid, either," replied Reid.

"Hmmm." Pyle started forward into the bracken and thorny bushes.

"Sarge!" came the yell from the trees behind them. Sheila broke through at a run, prompting Reid to extend his arm and stop her from going any further, for both her and Pyle's benefit. She stared at the former DI, who now seemed to be looking down into the depths of the quarry. Boydeau looked at Reid in alarm, and he shook his head. Her eyebrows shot up in disbelief.

"Too spineless," muttered Reid dismissively, and finally produced a cigarette and lighter.

Pyle seemed stranded, uncertain of what to do. He glanced over at the pair on the edge of the tree line. "Little Miss Perfect come to save the day?" he scoffed.

"Oh, for goodness' sake," said Reid, puffing a cloud of blue smoke up into the still air. "Come away from there, you idiot."

"_What did you call me?_" Pyle's eyes bulged in outrage and he began to retrace his steps. "_What did you say?_"

"I call it as I see it, mate." Reid flicked his ash casually into a nearby blackberry bush. Pyle advanced closer and closer until their toes were almost touching. In a single swift movement, Reid's cigarette went in pursuit of the ashes and his handcuffs were clipped around Pyle's wrists. The prisoner was pushed to the ground, allowing Boydeau to search him for weapons. By the time the cavalry arrived a few minutes later, Boydeau was keeping a wary eye on their prisoner whilst Reid sat on a fallen tree, having a smoke and watching the lowering sun in the distance.

***********

Boydeau set the first tea of the day on Reid's desk, then turned to face the door at the sound of a knock. DCI Brocklehurst stood in the entrance to the office. Sheila excused herself with a brusque "Sir", leaving BB to face Reid alone.

"Have a seat, sergeant," instructed Brocklehurst, as he did the same. "Thought I'd save you the trip down the hall." He cleared his throat and adjusted his uniform jacket. "There won't be a trial. DI…I mean, Pyle, has intimated that he will be pleading guilty. Save his family enormous embarrassment, of course."

Reid nodded sagely and sipped his tea. The DCI continued, "Unfortunately, all this has been very bad for the service's image. I can't possibly be seen to promote someone on the strength of such a…a…"

"…scandal?" supplied Reid helpfully. BB scowled.

"That's _not_ the word I had in mind. However, Reid, I'm afraid there'll be no promotion in this for you. Not at this time. I'm sure, though, that you will take great personal satisfaction from…"

Reid cut right across his commanding officer's sermon. "I take absolutely no satisfaction at all, sir, in having uncovered the corruption of a fellow officer. It gives me no pleasure whatsoever that a policeman's wife and children have had their lives ruined by the twisted lies of the person they trusted most. I look at the mess DI Pyle has left behind, and nothing I can do is going to put that right. Nothing." He sat back in his chair and looked at Brocklehurst, challenging him to disagree.

The DCI managed to recover sufficiently from this onslaught to reply, "Yes…I'm glad you see that. Good…" He rose and walked out with barely a backward glance, letting the door swing shut behind him. Reid restrained himself only briefly, then with a swipe of his hand dashed the half-empty mug to the floor, got up and turned to the window. With outstretched arms, he flexed his hands and then locked them behind his head. It was thus that Boydeau found him when she dared to look in a few minutes later.

"Bad time?" she asked tentatively. She looked at the lake of tea that now covered a good quarter of the office floor. "Never mind, I'll get a mop." She made to go, and Reid said tersely, "Leave it." There was a strained silence and then he added, in a less confrontational tone, "Sit down, Sheila." He turned to face her and she sat back in shock. He seemed to have aged five years in five minutes.

"Sarge…" She leaned forward, concerned.

Reid held up his hand. "Don't say anything. Just listen, will you?" He sat down wearily at his desk, head in hands, and stared down at the blotter on his desk for several seconds before finally looking up at Boydeau. "I've been in the force – service, whatever the PC brigade want to call it – more years than I care to count. In all that time, even when I was at rock bottom in Denton, I never wanted out. Things were never so bad that I couldn't see a positive in staying. This is the first time I remember feeling that the job is so pointless I don't want to do it any more. I swear, Sheila," animated now, Reid leaned across the desk, "if Brocklehurst had offered me a promotion to Assistant Chief Constable I'd have thrown it in his face. Like it matters!" He sat still, frustrated and angry, and sighed heavily. "Sorry. None of this is your fault. It's just me. Sorry."

Sheila opened her mouth to say something comforting and closed it again. There really wasn't much she _could_ say – Pyle had ruined the lives of so many people, as well as being the indirect cause of the death of Tom Ainslie, and his betrayal had poisoned what should have been Reid's triumphant return to the job he cared about. At that moment she would have dearly loved to either hug Reid or punch Pyle in the teeth. Unable to do either, she sat in sympathetic silence and waited, as she had before, for the crisis to pass.

Realising that Boydeau might possibly have come into his office for a reason other than to be his sounding board, he asked, "Any news on Kowalewska?"

"Er…latest report from the hospital says that she's in surgery, having the bullet removed." Clutching at something that might cheer him up, she added, "She'll survive, sarge! She's as tough as they come. You saw her at Fairfax Road; she just improvised, and I don't doubt she would have blown Pyle's head off if she'd thought it would help her situation. No need to worry about _her_."

"I'm not. Just wondered if _her_ case'll go to trial. Like you said, she's made of sterner stuff than Pyle – so she might want her day in court to show off how smart she's been."

"Hardly smart, sarge. Leaving clues all over the place; splurging 20k on a car, cash up front; trying to shoot her way past a dozen armed officers – doesn't sound too clever to me."

The door suddenly swung wide open, and Reid and Boydeau both turned, startled, to see a heavy-set, white-haired woman carrying an over-full archive box. "'Scuse me!" she said, her voice somewhat muffled by the papers in front of her face. She edged along the office wall to Hannigan's desk, plonked the box down on it, and smiled at Reid. She extended a hand for him to shake. "DS Hannigan," she said.

"Oh…" Reid stood, now lost for words. "I thought that you…that is, I assumed…"

"I've been on secondment to Area Drugs," explained the newcomer. She turned to shake Sheila's hand too. "Don't mind my stuff, I've just popped in for a minute. This used to be my office, you see…ah, here it is. I thought I'd probably left it here." She waved her desk diary in the air.

"Just passing through, then?" Reid had recovered his composure.

"Yes, for a wonder. I didn't expect it, to tell you the truth. Although I believe it was quite a sudden vacancy." She looked at the two blank faces before her. "Detective Inspector? I was told the previous post-holder left in a bit of a hurry."

Sheila almost choked, and Reid said with raised eyebrows, "You might say that."

"Really? Less than stellar circumstances, then?" Hannigan was rummaging through the now-unlocked desk drawers and transferring documents and office stationery into her box.

"Just a bit," replied Reid, and, seeing her quizzical look added, "How long have you got?"

**********

"Wasn't that a turn-up for the books?" asked Gryff Coleman, as he settled himself into a corner seat at the Miller's Arms.

"What, Hannigan getting Pyle's job? Certainly saved Brocklehurst's backside, I'll give you that." Reid took a swig of something that was almost certainly Coca-Cola. Gryff picked it up, sniffed it, and put it back on the table.

"Here!" Reid objected. "What…?"

"Just making sure it wasn't Guinness, Tel."

"Oh, thanks for that, you are a pal. Budge up," he ordered, as Sheila came over, wine glass in hand. Jordan, Gent, Green and a few others had also arrived, chatting nineteen to the dozen.

"Don't want to give the gossips any more to be going on with, do we?" Patting the seat beside him in an invitation to Boydeau, Gryff winked at a confused Reid, picked up his own pint and said, "Cheers," before making short work of it. Sheila frowned covertly at Coleman and shook a warning head at him.

The troops sat down at the adjoining table, still deep in conversation, but Danielle Osborne broke ranks to speak to Reid. "Sarge," she said, tapping him on the shoulder, "there was a phone call for you just as we were leaving the office."

"Oh?" Reid set his glass down. "Anything important?"

"Not sure, sarge, but he asked me to tell you…"

"_Who_ asked you?" interrupted Reid, impatient at the girl's scattiness.

"The caller. Said his name was - " she consulted a scrap of paper she had dug out of her pocket – "DI Frost, from Denton?" She looked at Reid for confirmation.

"Did he say what he wanted?" asked Reid, now giving Danielle his undivided attention. Sheila and Gryff were also listening intently.

"Just that he wanted you to call him back. Said he'd heard what had happened here, and thought that you might want to give him a ring, he had something that might interest you…" Danielle turned the note over and continued, "yes, here it is…'something going at Edmund Street'." She looked up again at Reid. "Does that make sense?"

Nobody said anything for a few seconds, and then Reid spoke. "Yes. Yes, it does. Perfect sense. Thanks, Danielle." He took the message slip from her and turned it over in his hands. "Abso-bloody-lutely _perfect _sense."


	33. Chapter 33

_**... and so here we are, finally, at the end. To anyone who's stuck with us throughout - thanks for reading. We hope we've stayed true to the characters, and if there are any glaring plot holes - don't tell us; we'd rather not know!**_

_**Handy and Aliis**_

_**

* * *

  
**_

**Epilogue**

"So it's not a promotion, then?" asked Tom Boydeau in tones of surprise.

Reid shook his head, twirling his Rothmans around the heavy glass dish to knock the finger of ash from the end. "Sideways move. Bloke who's been doing the job's been there years, apparently, and the DCI wanted to get some new blood in. Frost reckons they only had a couple of other applications and they're both older local blokes, so my callow youth and my modern London ways must've put me at an advantage."

Grinning, Sheila offered the last remaining poppadoms round the table and took one for herself. "First time for everything."

Reid's silent snort of amusement sent a little plume of smoke out of his nostrils, but he refrained from further response. The three of them were sitting round what had become their regular table at the Indian restaurant almost exactly midway between Reid's flat and Sheila's end terrace. What had begun as a one-off evening to celebrate Tom's new job had, over the intervening ten weeks, become something of a ritual, the timing varying according to Tom's girlfriend's shift patterns and the availability of Reid and Sheila.

Tom spooned biryani carefully onto his poppadom and balanced the resultant concoction precariously in one hand. "Load of grief for no return, if you ask me. Letting the flat, shifting your stuff – you've only been back ten minutes. What's so amazing about Denton, anyway?"

"Pastures new, I suppose." Reid scratched reflectively at the angle of his jaw. "Came back to the Met to prove a point, but I'm stuck at a dead end here." He drew on his cigarette and then gave a sardonic grin. "My reputation precedes me, as they say."

Sheila folded her arms on the table. "Have you talked to Louise?"

"Yeah. I'm coming down every couple of weeks, and once I get properly sorted out up there I can have the kids up to stay now and again. She wasn't jumping for joy, but it's not like I'm moving to Bahrain, is it?" He shrugged a little. "Anyway, they're used to me coming and going a bit. Paul's the one who does the day to day stuff."

"It's being around for them, that's what's important." Tom spoke around the last half-mouthful of poppadom. "Our Dad was a dead loss… don't give me that look, Sheil, he was bloody useless. Doesn't matter if they see you once a day or once a month, so long as they _do_ see you and they know you don't talk out of your arse. Can anybody eat any more?" he added, looking round the table.

"You're joking!" Sheila indicated her still-loaded plate and Reid shook his head.

"Lightweights!" declared Tom, disappearing in the direction of the buffet table.

His sister shook her head with weary affection and shot a sideways look at Reid, who was fiddling with the elastic band on his wrist and staring into space. "He's a lot happier in the new job. I think it helps him just to know…" she broke off in a very un-Sheila-ish fashion and Reid returned the look enquiringly. Sheila drew a breath. "Just to know you came back from so far down. It helps him. To know it can be done."

He nodded. "Good," he said, and then deliberately changed the subject. "You got that pack off Hannigan yet?"

Sheila tutted. "Yes! I told you I'll do it, and I will."

"Should have done it years ago," Reid said, flicking ash into the tray.

"What – take on extra responsibility and get regular earache from above and below for a pittance?"

"Don't see why I should be the only one to suffer. And be honest – you're really looking forward to being able to keep Leo in line."

She grinned. "I'm looking forward to nicking your office and getting some peace and quiet."

"I've left it tidy for you,_ Sergeant._"

"Not yet, I'm not. So don't you go acting as if it's a done deal. You'll jinx me."

"Gerraway." He ground out the stub of his cigarette and glanced over his shoulder. "What's he doing – eating it straight off the buffet?"

"On his phone." Sheila spoke with the long-suffering patience of one who was fighting the good fight against text speak. "Must be Caroline's break." She pushed her food around on her plate for a moment. "By the way – you know Gryff's theoretically secret leaving do that you theoretically don't know about, because obviously I didn't tell you?" Reid made a sound of dubious affirmation and she continued: "I'm supposed to think of a good excuse to get you across the road tomorrow afternoon, so no disappearing."

He huffed a diffident sigh. "Bloody marvellous."

"Don't be a misery. Let people be nice."

Reid's forthright opinion on the saccharine hypocrisy of work leaving do's was mercifully pre-empted by Tom arriving back at the table with a foil box in his hand and a spring in his step. "Caroline's coming back early, so I got them to do me a take-out of the rest of it – if that's okay with you two…" he added, hastily. Receiving nods by way of reply, he picked up his jacket from the back of the chair. "I'll go and bring the car round the front, then."

Reid and Boydeau walked out to the steps at the front of the restaurant and stood waiting companionably in the brittle autumn air.

"I'm going to walk home, I think," Reid said.

She looked at him. "You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. Fine. Honestly. Just shaking the curry down before I go to bed."

His fingers had gone automatically to the elastic band and Sheila smiled. "Not really working for you, that, is it?"

He glanced down and gave a sideways smile. "Not a great time to be giving up, really, is it? Here…" he pulled the band off his wrist and tossed it to her. "Keepsake."

"I'll treasure it," she told him, straight-faced.

"You better!"

"Are you straight off on Saturday morning?"

He shook his head, hands cupped around his lighter as he drew the first lungful from a fresh cigarette. "Tomorrow night," he said. "No point hanging about. I'm coming back down Sunday to get the last of the stuff and see the kids."

Tom's car was rounding the corner. On impulse, Sheila held out her hand. "I know I'll see you tomorrow," she said, "but it'll be busy, and I wanted to say good luck. You deserve it."

He took the hand and squeezed her fingers. "You too," he said, and then stunned her completely by leaning forward and giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. "Thanks." And with that he was gone, striding out along the pavement, coat flapping, reaching to turn up his collar before shoving his hands in his trouser pockets.

Tom swung the car door open, a broad grin on his face, and his sister climbed into the front seat. "Not a word!" she warned him. He held up both hands innocently and then reached to put the car in gear. Gunning the engine he swung the Escort in a sharp U-turn and roared up the road, giving a quick double blast on the horn as they swept by the figure on the pavement.

Reid, without breaking stride, raised a hand in acknowledgement. He was smiling.


End file.
